UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


POFMS   OF   SIDNEY    LANIER 


4701 


BOOKS    BY    SIDNEY     LANIER 

PUBLISHED    BY   CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


Poems.  Edited  by  his  Wife,  with  a  Memo 
rial  by  WILLIAM  HAYKS  WARD,  with 
portrait.  12ino net  $2.00 

Select    Poems    of    Sidney    Lanler. 

Edited,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes, 
by  PROF.  MORGAN  CALLAWAY,  JR., 
University  of  Texas.  12mo  .  .  net  $1.00 

Hymns  of  the  Marshes.  With  12  full- 
page  Illustrations,  photogravure  frontis 
piece,  and  head  and  tail  pieces,  gvo  net  $2.00 

Bob.  The  Story  of  Our  Mocking  Bird. 
With  16  full-page  illustrations  in  colors 
from  photographs  by  A.  R.  DUGMORE. 
12mo net  $0.7& 

Letters  of  Sidney  Lanler.  Selections 
from  his  Correspondence,  1866-1881.  With 
two  portraits  in  photogravure.  12mo  net  $2.00 

Retrospects  and  Prospects.  Descrip 
tive  and  Historical  Essays.  12mo  .  net  $1.50 

Music  and  Poetry.  A  Volume  of  Es 
says.  12mo net  $1.50 

The  English  Novel.  A  Study  In  the  De 
velopment  of  Personality.  Crown  8vo  net  $2.00 

The  Science  of  English  Verse.  Crown 

8vo net  $2.00 

The  Lanler  Book.  Selections  for 
School  Reading.  Edited  and  arranged 
by  MARY  E.  HURT,  in  co-operation  with 
Mrs.  LANIER.  Illustrated.  (Scribncr 
Series  of  School  Reading.)  12mo  .  net  $0.50 

Selections  from  Sidney  Lanler.  Prose 

and  Verse  for  Use  in  Schools.  12mo  net  $0.50 

BOY'S  LIBRARY  OF  LEGEND  AND 

CHIVALRY 

The  Boy's  Frolssart.  Illustrated.  AL 
FRED  KAPPES nit  $1.80 

The  Boy's  King-  Arthur.    Illustrated 

net    $1.80 

Knightly  Legends  of  Wales ;  or.  The 

Boy's  Mabinogion.     Illustrated        .     net    $1.80 

The  Boy's  Percy,    illustrated        .    net   $i.so 


POEMS 


OF 


SIDNEY  LANIER 


EDITED  BY  HIS  WIFE 


WITH   A    MEMORIAL  ?y   WILLIAM    HAYES    WAKD 


-"  Go,  trembling  song, 


And  stay  not  long;  oh  stay  not  long; 
Thou'rt  only  a  gray  and  sober  dove, 
But  thine  eye  is  faith  and  thy  wing  is  love." 


NEW  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1884,  1891,  1912,  1916,  BY 
MARY    D.  LANIEK 


I  3  S  0 


STA  HMAL  SCHOOL 

IMS  ANGBLBS.  CALIFORNIA 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MEMORIAL xi 

HYMNS  OF  THE  MARSHES  : 

I.  SUNRISE, 3 

(The  Independent,  December,  1882.) 

II.  INDIVIDUALITY, 10 

(The  Century  Magazine,  January,  1882.) 

III.  SUNSET, 13 

(The  Continent,  February,  1882.) 

<y     IV.  THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN, 14  V    V 

(The  Masque  of  Poets,  1879.) 

CLOVER,          . .19 

(The  Independent,  1876.) 

THE  WAVING  OF  THE  CORN, 23 

(Harper's  Magazine,  1877.) 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE 24 

(Scotfs  Magazine,  1877.) 

FROM  THE  FLATS, 26 

(Lippincotfs  Magazine,  1877.) 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD, 27 

(The  Galaxy,  August,  1877.) 


IV  .  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

TAMPA  ROBINS, 28 

{Lippincotfs  Magazine,  1877.) 

>»,       / 
THE  CRYSTAL 29  v/ 

{The  Independent,  1880.) 

THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH,  .      '•'..       «        ,  ^    .        .        .     33 
{Applctons1  Magazine,  1878.) 

To  BAYARD  TAYLOR,     .     '  .^       .    .'•.:.  .-'   ...        .     39 
(Scribner's  Magazine,  March,  1879.) 

A  DEDICATION.     To  CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN,        .        .        »    43 

{Earliest  Collected  Poems,  by  Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippincott  &* 

Co.,  1876.) 

'o  CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN,    .        .        .     «..,«.    44 
(Lippincotfs  Magazine,  March,  1876.) 

THE  STIRRUP-CUP,         .        .        .        .  "    .        .        •      -•    45  \s 
{Scribner's  Magazine,  1877.) 

A  SONG  OF  ETERNITY  IN  TIME,  .        .-,..'•'        .46 

{The  Independent,  1880.) 

OWL  AGAINST  ROBIN,    .        .       f  ,    ;'      «     .  '.       .   ,   .    47 

{Scribner's  Magazine,  August,  1880.) 

A  SONG  OF  THE  FUTURE,      .        ./      ......        .        .50 

{Scribner's  Magazine,  1877-78.) 

OPPOSITION,  .       ..--.,.      ,-.'-.,:,•.      •       .       .    51 
{Good  Company,  1879-80.) 

ROSE-MORALS,  ,  -;       .  *    •       .  •       .    .  .  .  .       52 

{Lippincotfs  Magazine,  May,  1876.) 

CORN,     .        •        •        .        .       .     v  .  .    -,     .  .  j    .        .     53    \' 
{Lippincotfs  Magazine,  February,  1875.) 

THE  SYMPHONY,    .        .    K  ,        ,        .        •'.**•  '•       •  .     •     60    V 
{Lippincotfs  Magazine,  June,  1875.) 


CONTENTS.  V 

1>AGK 

MY  SPRINGS, 71 

(The  Century  Magazine,  October,  1882.) 

IN  ABSENCE, .        .        .        -74 

(Lippincotf  s  Magazine,  September,  1875.) 

ACKNOWLEDGMENT, -77 

(Lippincotf  s  Magazine,  November,  1876.) 

LAUS  MARINE,         .        .        .        .  .        .        .        .80 

(Scribner's  Magazine,  1876.) 

SPECIAL  PLEADING, 81 

(Lippincotf  s  Magazine,  January,  1876.) 

THE  BEE, 83    V  . 

(Lippincotf  s  Magazine,  October,  1877.) 

THE  HARLEQUIN  OF  DREAMS,       ...  .     85 

fs  Magazine,  April,  1878.) 


STREET  CRIES  : 

I.  REMONSTRANCE, 86 

(The  Century  Magazine,  April,  1883.) 

II.  THE  SHIP  OF  EARTH, 89 

(The  Round  Table.) 

III.  How  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELL,    .        .        .        .89 

(The  Century  Magazine,  March,  1884.) 

IV.  TVRANNY, 93 

(The  Round  Table,  February,  1868.) 

V.  LIFE  AND  SONG,     . 94 

(The  Round  Table,  September,  1868.) 

VI.  To  RICHARD  WAGNER, 95 

(The  Galaxy,  November,  1877.) 

VII.  A  SONG  OF  LOVE, g; 

(The  Century  Magazine,  January,  1884.) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PACB 

To  BEETHOVEN 98 

(The  Galaxy,  March,  1877.) 

2In  fjrau  gfanmm  «$al?=1luerbad), 101 

(1878.) 

To  NANNETTE  FALK-AUERBACH, 102 

(Baltimore  Gazette,  1878.) 

To  OUR  MOCKING-BIRD, 103 

(The  Independent,  1878.) 

THE  DOVE, 105 

(Scribneijs  Magazine,  May,  1878.) 

To ,  WITH  A  ROSE, iob     / 

(Lippincotf  s  Magazine,  December,  1876.) 

ON  HUNTINGDON'S  "MIRANDA," 107 

(N.   Y.  Evening  Post,  1874.) 

ODE  TO  THE  JOHNS  HOPKINS  UNIVERSITY,          .        .        .108 
(The  University  Circular,  1880.) 

To  DR.  THOMAS  SHEARER, 112 

MARTHA  WASHINGTON, .113 

(The  Centennial  Court  Journal,  1876.) 

PSALM  OF  THE  WEST, 114 

(Lippincotf  s  Magazine,  June,  1876.) 

AT  FIRST.     To  CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN 139 

(The  Independeitt,  1883.) 

A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER,      .        .        .        .141 
(The  Independent,  1880-81.) 

A  FLORIDA  SUNDAY, 142 

(Frank  Leslie1  s  Sunday  Magazine,  1877.) 

To  MY  CLASS 146 

(The  Independent,  October,  1884.) 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PAGB 

ON  VIOLET'S  WAFERS, 147 

(The  Independent,  October,  1884.) 

IRELAND, 148 

(The  Art  Autograph,  1 880.) 

UNDER  THE  CEDARCROFT  CHESTNUT,  .... 
{Scrihteris  Magazine,  1877-78.) 

AN  EVENING  SONG, 151 

(Lippincotf  s  Magazine,  January,  1877.) 

A  SUNRISE  SONG 152 

ON  A  PALMETTO, 153 

STRUGGLE, 154 

CONTROL, 155 

To  J.  D.  II. .  156 

MARSH  HYMNS, 157 

THOU  AND  I, 158 

THE  HARD  TIMES  IN  ELFLAND, 159 

(The  Christmas  Magazine,  Baltimore,  1877.) 

DIALECT  POEMS. 

A  FLORIDA  GHOST 171 

(Affletons'  Magazine,  1877-78.) 

UNCLE  JIM'S  BAPTIST  REVIVAL  HYMN.     (SIDNEY  AND  CLIF 
FORD  LANIER) 175 

(Scribner's  Magazine,  1876.) 

"NINE  FROM  EIGHT," 177 

(The  Independent,  March,  1884.) 

"THAR'S  MORE  IN  THE  MAN  THAN  THAR  is  IN  THE  LAND,"  180 
(Georgia  Daily,  1869.) 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

JONES'S  PRIVATE  ARGYMENT,         *,    '.       ;  •     .       ;  '     .  183 

THE  POWER  OF  PRAYER;  OR,  THE  FIRST  STEAMBOAT  up  THE 
ALABAMA.     (SIDNEY  AND  CLIFFORD  LANIER),         .  -      .  185 
(Scribner's  Magazine,  1875-76.) 

UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 

THE  JACQUERIE.    A  FRAGMENT,    .       oV~.       .       •        -191 
THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING,         .       .,-.    ." ;  - .       .    •    .        .  215 

STRANGE  JOKES,     .--      .       .       .       .       .     •''.'.-•..     .  217 
(The  Independent,  1883.) 

NIRVANA, .       .        .218 

(The  Southern  Magazine,  1871.) 

THE  RAVEN  DAYS,         ...        .       .       .      ;,       .       .221 

OUR  HILLS, .  222 

LAUGHTER  IN  THE  SENATE,    .        .        .        .        .-     - .        .223 

BABY  CHARLEY, .224 

(Lippincott's  Magazine,  January,  1883.) 

A  SEA-SHORE  GRAVE.    To  M.  J.  L.     (SIDNEY  AND  CLIF 
FORD  LANIER),      .'•.'.        v.        .        .        ...  225 

(The  Southern  Magazine,  July,  1871.) 

SOULS  AND  RAIN-DROPS,        .        .        .       .       .       .        .226 

(Lippincott's  Magazine,  1883.) 

NILSSON,         .        .-.       .  "     .        .     •  .        .        .    '    . '~    .  227 

(The  Independent,  April,  1883.) 

NIGHT  AND  DAY,    .        ,       .       .        .       .     \.       .        .228 
(The  Independent,  July,  1884.) 

A  BIRTHDAY  SONG.    To  S.  G.,      .       .     '-•    ;    •       •       •  229 
(The  Round  Table,  1867.) 

RESURRECTION,     -4       7  •     .       ,.       .       ..  •     .       .        .  231 
(The  Round  Table,  October,  1868.) 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

To  , 232 

THE  WEDDING, 233 

(The  Independent,  August,  1884.) 

THE  PALM  AND  THE  PINE, 234 

SPRING  GREETING, 235 

THE  TOURNAMENT, 236 

(The  Round  Table,  1867.) 

THE  DYING  WORDS  OF  STONEWALL  JACKSON,       .        .        .  240 

TO   WlLHELMTNA, 242 

(The  Manhattan  Magazine,  September,  1884.) 

WEDDING-HYMN, 243 

(The  Independent,  August,  1884.) 

IN  THE  FOAM, 244 

(The  Round  Table,  1867.) 

BARNACLES 245 

(The  Round  Table,  1867.) 

NIGHT, 246 

(The  Independent,  May,  1884.) 
JUNE  DREAMS,  IN  JANUARY,  .        .        .        .        .        .247 

(The  Independent,  September.  1884.) 
NOTES  TO  POEMS, 253 

THE  CENTENNIAL  MEDITATION  OF  COLUMBIA.     1776-1876. 
A  CANTATA, 259 

NOTE  TO  THE  CANTATA,         .        .        ...        .        .        .  261 ' 


MEMORIAL. 


BECAUSE  I  believe  that  Sidney  Lanier  was  much 
more  than_ji  clever  artisan  in  rhyme  and  metre~pBie^~ 
cause  he  will,  I  think,  take  his  final  rank  with  the 
first  princes  of  American  song,  I  am  glad  to  provide 
this  slight  memorial.  There  is  sufficient  material  in 
his  letters  for  an  extremely  interesting  biography, 
which  could  be  properly  prepared  only  by  his  wife. 
These  pages  can  give  but  a  sketch  of  his  life  and 
work.  . 

Sidney  Lanier  was  born  at  Macon,  Ga.,  on  the  dK 
third  of  February,  1842.  His  earliest  known  ances 
tor  of  the  name  was  Jerome  Lanier,  a  Huguenot 
refugee,  who  was  attached  to  the  court  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  very  likely  as  a  musical  composer  ;  and 
whose  son,  Nicholas,  was  in  high  favor  with  James  I. 
and  Charles  I.,  as  director  of  music,  painter,  and 
political  envoy  ;  and  whose  grandson,  Nicholas,  held  a 
similar  position  in  the  court  of  Charles  II.  A  portrait 
of  the  elder  Nicholas  Lanier,  by  his  friend  Van  Dyck, 
was  sold,  with  other  pictures  belonging  to  Charles 
I.,  after  his  execution.  The  younger  Nicholas  was 
the  first  Marshal,  or  presiding  officer,  of  the  Soci 
ety  of  Musicians,  incorporated  at  the  Restoration, 
"  for  the  improvement  of  the  science  and  the  interest 


\L 


Xll  MEMORIAL. 

of  its  professors ; "  and  it  is  remarkable  that  four 
oth£is_of  the  name  oFTLanier  were  among  the  few  in- 
corporators,  one  of  them,  John  Lanier,  very  likely 
father  of  the  Sir  John  Lanier  who  fought  as  Major- 
General  at  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne,  and  fell  gloriously 
at  Steinkirk  along  with  the  brave  Douglas. 

The  American  branch  of  the  family  originated  as 
early  as  1716  with  the  immigration  of  Thomas  Lanier, 
who  settled  with  other  colonists  on  a  grant  of  land 
ten  miles  square,  which  includes  the  present  city  of 
Richmond,  Va.  One  of  the  family,  a  Thomas  La 
nier,  married  an  aunt  of  George  Washington.  The 
family  is  somewhat  widely  scattered,  chiefly  in  the 
Southern  States. 

"'•  The  father  of  our  poet  was  Robert  S.  Lanier,  a 
lawyer  still  living  in  Macon,  Ga.  PI  is  mother  was 
Mary  Anderson,  a  Virginian  of  Scotch  descent,  from 
a  family  that  supplied  members  of  the  House  of  Bur 
gesses  of  Virginia  for  many  years  and  in  more  than 
one  generation,  and  was  gifted  in  poetry,  music,  and 

_pratory. 

^  -His  earliest  passion  was  for  music.  AJSJI  child  he 
learned  tQ_j^laj^_almost  without  instruction,,  on  every 
kind  of  instrument  he  could  find  ;  and  while  yet  a 

/boy  he  played  theHute,  organ,  piano,  violin,  guitar, 


and  banj.o,  especiairy  "devoting  himself  to  the  flute 
in  deference  to  his  father,  who  feared  for  him  the 
powerful  fascination  of  the  violin.  For  it  was  the 
violin-voice  that,  above  all  others,  commanded  his 
soul.  He  has  related  that  during  his  college  days  it 
would  sometimes  so  exalt  him  in  rapture,  that  pres 
ently  he  would  sink  from  his  solitary  music-worship 
into  a  deep  trance,  thence  to  awake,  alone,  on  the 
floor  of  his  room,  sorely  shaken  in  nerve. 


MEMORIAL.  X1H 

In  after  years  more  than  one  listener  remarked  the 
strange  violin  effects  which  he  conquered  from  the 
flute.  His  devotion  to  music  rather  alarmed  than 
pleased  his  friends,  and  while  it  was  here  that  he  first 
discovered  that  he  possessed  decided  genius,  he  for 
some  time  shared  the  early  notion  of  his  parents,  that 
it  was  an  unworthy  pursuit,  and  he  rather  repressed 
his  taste.  He  did  not  then  know  by  what  inheritance 
it  had  come  to  him,  nor  how  worthy  is  the  art. 

Ai_ thfi_jigeof    fourteen   he   entered   the   sopho- 
more   class   of   Oglethorpe    College,    an    institution 
under  Presbyterian  control  near  Midway,  Ga.,  which 
had  not  vitality  enough  to  survive  the  war.     He  grad 
uated  in   1860,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  with  the  first  * 
honors  of  his  class,  having  lost  a  year  during  which 
he  took  a  clerkship  in  the  Macon  post-office.     At  least 
one  genuine  impulse  was  received  in  this  college  life, 
and  that  proceeded  from  Professor  James  Woodrow,     j.  sJ^ 
who  was  then  one  of  Sidney's  teachers,  and  who  has 
since  been  connected  with  the  University  and  Theo 
logical    Seminary   in    Columbia,    S.   C.     During  the    \ 
last  weeks  of  his  life]31r.  Lanier  stated  that  he  owed  ^ 
to  Professor  Woodrow  the  strongest  and  most  valu 
able  stimulus  of  his  youth.]    Immediately  on  his  grad 
uation  he  was  called  to  a  tutorship  in  the  college,    j 
which  position  he  held  until  the  outbreak  of  the    I 
war. 

And  here,  with  some  hesitation,  I  record,  as  a  true 
biography  requires,  the  development  of  his  conscious 
ness  of  possessing  real  genius.  One  with  this  gift 
has  a  right  to  know  it,  just  as  others  know  if  they 
possess  talent  or  shiftiness  of  resource.  While  we 
do  not  talk  so  much  of  genius  now  as  we  did  a 
generation  ago,  we  can  yet  recognize  the  differ- 


XIV  MEMORIAL. 

ence  between  the  fervor  of  that  divine  birth  and  the 
cantering  of  the  livery  Pegasus  forth  and  back, 
along  the  vulgar  boulevards  over  which  facile  talent 
rides  his  daily  hack.  Only  once  or  twice,  in  his  own 
private  note-book,  or  in  a  letter  to  his  wife  when  it 
was  needful,  in  sickness  and  loneliness,  to  strengthen 
her  will  and  his  by  testifying  his  own  deepest  con 
sciousness  of  power,  did  he  whisper  the  assurance  of 
his  strength.  But  he  knew  it,  and  she  knew  it,  and 
it  gave  his  will  a  peace  in  toil,  a  sun-lit  peace,  not 
withstanding  sickness,  or  want,  or  misapprehension, 
calm  above  the  zone  of  clouds. 

/  As  I  have  said,  his  genius  he  first  fully  discovered  in 
music.  I  copy  from  his  pencilled  college  note-book 
what  cannot  have  been  written  after  he  was  eighteen 
years  old.  The  boy  had  been  discussing  the  question 
with  himself  how  far  his  inclinations  were  to  be  re 
garded  as  indicating  his  best  capacities  and  his  duties. 
He  says  : 

"  The  point  which  I  wish  to  settle  is  merely,  by 
fcrhat  method  shall  I  ascertain  what  I  am  fit  for,  as 
preliminary  to  ascertaining  God's  will  with  reference 
to  me  ;  or  what  my  inclinations  are,  as  preliminary 
to  ascertaining  what  my  capacities  are,  that  is,  what 
I  am  fit  for.  I  am  more  than  all  perplexed  by 
this  fact,  that  the  prime  inclination,  that  is,  natural 
bent  (which  I  have  checked,  though)  of  my  nature 
is  to  music  ;  and  for  that  I  have  the  greatest  talent; 
indeed,  not  boastmgT'T^^p^P^^'irjne^  I  have 
an  extraordinary  musical  talent,  aricTfeeTit  within 
"me  plainly  that  I  could  rise  as  high  as  any  com 
poser.  But  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  that  I 
was  intended  for  a  musician,  because  it  seems  so  small 
a  business  in  comparison  with  other  things  which,  it 
seems  to  me,  I  might  do.  Question  here,  What  is 
the  province  of  music  in  the  economy  of  the  world?" 


MEMORIAL.  XV 

Similar  aspirations  he  felt  at  this  early  age,  prob 
ably  eighteen,  for^grand  literary  labor,  as  the  same 
note-book  would  bear  witness.  We  see  here  the 
boy  talking  to  himself,  a  boy  who  had  found  in  him 
self  a  standard  above  anything  in  his  fellows. 

The  breaking  out  of  the  war  summoned  Sidney 
Lanier  from  books  to  arms.  In  April,  1861^  he  en 
listed  in  the  Confederate  Army,  with  the  Macon  Vol 
unteers  of  the  Second  Georgia  Battalion,  the  first 
military  organization  which  left  Georgia  for  Vir 
ginia.  From  his  childhood  he  had  had  a  military 
taste.  Even  as  a  small  boy  he  had  raised  a  company 
of  boys  armed  with  bows  and  arrows,  and  so  well  did 
he  drill  them  that  an  honored  place  was  granted 
them  in  the  military  parades  of  their  elders.  Having 
volunteered  as  a  private  at  the  n.gpL  nf_rn_petfi«»n;  he  re 
mained  a  private  till  the  last  year  of  the  war.  Thrge. 
time_s_he_was  offered  jprornotion  and  refused  it  because 
it  would  separate  him  from  his  younger  brother,  who 
was  his  companion  in  arms,  as  their  singularly  ten 
der  devotion  would  not  allow  them  to  be  parted.  The 
first  year  of  service  in  Virginia  was  easy  and  pleasant, 
and  he  spent  his  abundant  leisure  in  music  and  the 
study  of  German,  French,  and  Spanish.  He  was  in 
the  battles  of  Seven  Pines,  Drewry's  Bluffs,  and  the 
seven  days'  fighting  about  Richmond,  culminating  in 
the  terrible  struggle  of  Malvern  Hill.  After  this 
campaign  he  was  transferred,  with  his  brother,  to  the 
signal  service,  the  joke  among  his  less  fortunate  com 
panions  being  that  he  was  selected  because  he  could 
play  the  flute.  His  headquarters  were  now  for  a 
short  period  at  Petersburg,  where  he  had  the  advan 
tage  of  a  small  local  library,  but  where  he  began  to 
feel  the  premonitions  pf_tliat  fatal  disease^  consumj> 


XVi  MEMORIAL. 

*» 

tion,  against  which  he  baftled  for  fifteen  years.  'The 
regular  full  inspirations  required  by  the  flute  prob 
ably  prolonged  his  life.  In  1863  his  detachment  was 
mounted  and  did  service  in  Virginia  and  North  Caro 
lina.  At  last  the  two  brothers  were  separated,  it 
coming  in  the  duty  of  each  to  take  charge  of  a  vessel 
which  was  to  run  the  blockade.  Sidney's  vessel  was 
captured,  and  he  was  for  five  months  in  Point  Look 
out  prison,  until  he  was  ejmhanged  (with  hisJiule, 
for  he  never  lost  it),  near  the  close  of  the  war.  Those 
were  very  hard  days  for  him,  and  a  picture  of  them 
is  given  in  his  "  Tiger ..Lilies,"  the  novel  which  he 
wrote  two  years  afterward.  It  is  a  luxuriant,  un- 
pruned  work,  written  in  hasfe  for  the  press  with 
in  the  space  of  three  weeks,  but  one  which  gave 
rich  promise  of  the  poet.  A  chapter  in  the  middle 
of  the  book,  introducing  the  scenes  of  those  four 
years  of  struggle,  is  wholly  devoted  to  a  remarkable 
metaphor,  which  becomes  an  allegory  and  a  sermon, 
in  which  war  is  pictured  as  "  a  strange,  enormous, 
terrible  flower,"  which  "the  early  spring  of  1861 
brought  to  bloom  besides  innumerable  violets  and 
jessamines."  He  tells  how  the  plant  is  grown  ;  what 
arguments  the  horticulturists  give  for  cultivating  it  ; 
how  Christ  inveighed  against  it,  and  how  its  shades 
are  damp  and  its  odors  unhealthy  ;  and  what  a  fine 
specimen  was  grown  the  other  day  in  North  America 
by  "  two  wealthy  landed  proprietors,  who  combined 
all  their  resources  of  money,  of  blood,  of  bones,  ol 
tears,  of  sulphur,  and  what  not  to  make  this  the 
grandest  specimen  of  modern  horticulture."  "  It  is 
supposed  by  some,"  says  he,  "that  seed  of  this  Amer 
ican  specimen  (now  dead)  yet  remains  in  the  land  ;  bul 
as  for  this  author  (who,  with  many  friends,  suffered 


MEMORIAL.  xvii 

from  the  unhealthy  odors  of  the  plant),  he  could  find 
it  in  his  heart  to  wish  fervently  that  this  seed,  if  there 
be  verily  any,  might  perish  in  the  germ,  utterly  out 
of  sight  and  life  and  memory,  and  out  of  the  remote 
hope  of  resurrection,  forever  and  ever,  no  matter  in 
whose  granary  they  are  cherished !  "  Through  those 
four  years,  though  earnestly  devoted  to  the  cause,  and 
fulfilling  his  duties  with  zeal,  MS  horror  of  war  grew 
to  the  end.  He  had  entered  it  in  a  "  crack  "  regi 
ment,  with  a  dandy  uniform,  and  was  first  encamped 
near  Norfolk,  where  the  gardens,  with  the  Northern 
market  hopelessly  cut  off,  were  given  freely  to  the 
soldiers,  who  lived  in  every  luxury ;  and  every  man 
had  his  sweetheart  in  Norfolk.  But  the  tyranny 
and  Christlossness  of  war  oppressed  him,  though  he 
loved  the  free  life  in  the  saddle  and  under  the  stars. 

In  February,  186^5,  he  was  released  from  Point  Look 
out  and  undertook  the  weary  return  on  foot  to 
his  home  in  Georgia,  with  the  twenty-dollar  gold 
piece  which  he  had  in  his  pocket  when  captured,  and 
which  was  returned  to  him,  with  his  other  little  ef 
fects,  when  he  was  released.  Of  course  he  had  the 
flute,  which  he  had  hidden  in  his  sleeve  when  he  en 
tered  the  prison,  and  which  had  earned  him  some 
comforts.  He  reached  home  March  i5th,  with  his 
strength  utterly  exhausted.  There  followed  six  weeks 
of  desperate  illness,  and  just  as  he  began  to  recover 
from  it  his  beloved  mother^died  of  consumption;  He 
himself  arose  from  his  sick-bed  with  pronounced 
congestion  of  one  lung,  but  found  relief  in  two 
months  of  out-of-door  life  with  an  uncle  at  Point 
Clear,  Mobile  Bay.  From  December,  1865,  to  April, 
1867,  he  filled  a  clerjcshirj  in  Montgomery,  Ala., 
and  in  the  next  month  made  his  first  visit  to  New 


XVlil  MEMORIAL. 

York  on  the  business  of  publishing  his  "Tiger 
Lilies,"  written  in  April.  In  September,  1867.  he 
took  charge  of  a  country  academy  of  nearly  a/ hun 
dred  pupils  in  Prattville,  Ala.,  and  was  married  in 
Pj;cenibe_r  of  the  same  year  to  Miss  Mary  Day, 
daughter  of  Charles  Day,  of  Macon. 

To  the  years  before  Mr.  Lanier's  marriage  belong  a 
dozen  poems  included  in  this  volume.  Two  of  them 
are  translations  from  the  German  made  during  the 
war ;  the  others  are  songs  and  miscellaneous  poems, 
full  ot  flush  and  force,  but  not  yet  moulded  by  those 
laws  of  art  of  whose  authority  he  had  hardly  become 
conscious.  His  access  to  books  was  limited,  and 
he  expressed  himself  more  with  music  than_with 


ILteratureTtak ing  down  the  notes  of  birds,  and  writ 
ing  music  to  his  own  songs  or  those  of  Tennyson. 

In  January,  1868,  the  next  month  after  his  marriage, 
he  suffered  his  first  hemorrhage  from  the  lungs,  and 
returned  in  May  to  Macon,  in  very  low  health.  Here 
he  remained,  studying  and  afterward  practising  law 
with  his  father,  until  December,  1872.  During  this 
period  there  came,  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1870, 
a  more  alarming  decline  with  settled  cough.  He 
went  for  treatment  to  New  York,  where  he  remained 
two  months,  returning  in  October  greatly  improved 
and  strong  in  hope  ;  but  again  at  home  he  lost  ground 
steadily.  He  was  now  fairly  engaged  in  the  brave 
struggle  against  consumption,  which  could  have  but 
one  end.  So  precarious  already  was  his  health  that 
a  change  of  residence  was  determined  on,  and  in 
December,  1872,  he  went  to  San  Antonio,  Texas,  in 
search  of  a  permanent  home  there,  leaving  his  wife 
and  children  meanwhile  at  Macon.  But  the  climate  did 
not  prove  favorable  and  he  returned  in  April,  1873. 


MEMORIAL.  X13C 

During  these  five  years  a  sense  of  holy  obligation, 
based  on  the  conviction  that  special  talents  had  been 
given  him,  and  that  the  time  might  be  short,  rested 
upon  Lanier,  until  it  was  impossible  to  resist  it  longer. 
He  felt  himself  called  to  something  other  than  a 
country  attorney's  practice.  It  was  the  compulsion 
of  waiting  utterance,  not  yet  enfranchised.  From 
Texas  he  wrote  to  his  wife  : 

"  Were  it  not  for  some  circumstances  which  make 
such  a  proposition  seem  absurd  in  the  highest  degree, 
I  would  think  that  I  am  shortly  to  die,  and  that  my 
spirit  hath  been  singing  its  swan-song  before  dissolu 
tion.  All  day  my  soul  hath  been  cutting  swiftly  into 
the  great  space  of  the  subtle,  unspeakable  deep, 
driven  by  windjifoe_r_wmd  of  heavenly_melody^  The 
very  inner  spirfFand  essence  of  all  wind^songs,  bird- 
songs,  passion-songs,  folk-songs,  country-songs,  sex- 
songs,  soul-songs  and  body-songs  hath  blown  upon 
me  in  quick  gusts  like  the  breath  of  passion,  and 
sailed  me  into  a  sea  of  vast  dreams,  whereof  each 
wave  is  at  once  a  vision  and  a  melody."  » 

Now  fully  determined  to  give  himself  to  music  and 
literature  so  long  as  he  could  keep  death  at  bay,  he 
sought  aland  of  books.  Taking  his  flute  and  his  pen 
for  sword  and  staff,  he  txirned  his  face  northward. 
After  visiting  New  York  he  made  his  home  in  Balti 
more,  December,  1873,  under  engagement  as  first 
flute  for" the  Peabody  Symphony  Concerts. 

With  his  settlement  in  Baltimore  begins  a  story  of 
as  brave  and  sad  a  struggle  as  the  history  of  genius 
records.  On  the  one  hand  was  the  opportunity  for 
study,  and  the  full  consciousness  of  power,  and  a  will 
never  subdued  ;  and  on  the  other  a  body  wasting 
with  consumption,  that  must  be  forced  to  task  beyond 
its  strength  not  merely  to  express  the  thoughts  oJ 


XX  MEMORIAL. 

beauty  which  strove  for  utterance,  but  from  the  ne 
cessity  of  providing  bread  for  his  babes.  His  fathei 
would  have  had  him  return  to  Macon,  and  settle  down 
with  him  in  business  and  share  his  income,  but  that 
would  have  been  the  suicide  of  every  duty  and  am 
bition.  So  he  wrote  from  Baltimore  to  his  father. 
November  29,  1873  : 

"  I  have  given  your  last  letter  the  fullest  and  most 
careful  consideration.  After  doing  so  I  feel  sure  that 
Macon  is  not  the  place  for  me.  If  you  could  taste 
the  delicious  crystalline  air,  and  the  champagne 
breeze  that  I've  just  been  rushing  about  in,  I  am 
equally  sure  that  in  point  of  climate  you  would  agree 
with  me  that  my  chance  for  life  is  ten  times  as  great 
here  as  in  Macon.  Then,  as  to  business,  why  should 
I,  nay,  how  can  I,  settle  myself  down  to  be  a  third-rate 
struggling  lawyer  for  the  balance  of  my  little  life,  as 
long  as  there  is  a  certainty  almost  absolute  that  I  can 
do  some  other  thing  so  much  better? 


from  whose  judgment  in  such  matters  there  can  be 
no  appeal,  have  told  mer  for  instance,  thj^J^jun__.the 
greatest  flute-player  in  the  world  ;  and  several  others, 
of  equally  authoritative  judgment,  have  given  me  an 
almost  equal  encouragement  to  work  with  my  pen. 
(Of  course  I  protest  against  the  necessity  which 
makes  me  write  such  things  about  myself.  I  only  do 
so  because  I  so  appreciate  the  love  and  tenderness 
which  prompt  you  to  desire  me  with  you  that  I  will 
make  the  fullest  explanation  possible  of  my  course, 
out  of  reciprocal  honor  and  respect  for  the  motives 
which  lead  you  to  think  differently  from  me.)  My 
dear  father,  think  how,  for  twenty  years,  through 
poverty,  through  pain,  through  weariness,  through 
sickness,  through  the  uncongenial  atmosphere  of  a 
farcical  college  and  of  a  bare  army  and  then  of  an 
exacting  business  life,  through  all  the  discouragement 
of  being  wholly  unacquainted  with  literary  people 
and  literary  ways  —  I  say,  think  how,  in  spite  of  all 
these  depressing  circumstances,  and  of  a  thousand 


MEMORIAL. 

more  which  I  could  enumerate,  they?  two 
of  niusic  and  of  poetry  have  steadily  kept  in  m 
so  that  I  could  not  banish  them'  Does  it  not  seem 
to  you  as  to  me,  that  1  begin~to  have  the  right  to 
enroll  myself  among  the  devotees  of  these  two  sub 
lime  arts,  after  having  followed  them  so  long  and  so 
humbly,  and  through  so  much  bitterness  ?" 

What  could  his  father  do  but  yield  ?  And  what 
could  he  do  during  the  following  years  of  his  son's  fight 
for  standing-room  on  the  planet  but  help  ?  But 
for  that  help,  generously  given  by  his  father  and 
brother,  as  their  ability  allowed,  at  the  critical  times 
of  utter  prostration,  the  end  would  not  have  been 
long  delayed.  For  the  little  that  was  necessary  to 
give  his  household  a  humble  support  it  was  not  easy 
for  the  most  strenuous  young  author  to  win  by  his 
pen  in  the  intervals  between  his  hemorrhages.  He 
asked  for  very  little,  only  the  supply  of  absolute  ne 
cessities,  what  it  would  be  easy  for  a  well  man  to  earn, 
"but  what  it  was  very  hard  for  a  man  to  earn  scarce 
able  to  leave  his  bed,  dependen_LiiiL-lke  £ 
come  had  from  poemsjind  articles  in^magazines_that 
would  take  them,  or  from  Bourses  of  lectured—in 
schools.  Often  for  months  together  he  could  do  no. 
v/orl:.  He  was  driven  to  Texas,  to  Florida,  to  Penn 
sylvania,  to  North  Carolina,  to  try  to  recover  health 
from  pine  breaths  and  clover  blossoms.  Supported 
by  the  implicit  faith  of  one' heart,  which  fully  believed 
in  his  genius,  and  was  willing  to  wait  if  he  could 
only  find  his  opportunity,  his__jC£uir^g£LJie_vejLiailed. 
He  still  kept  before  himself  first  his  ideal  and  his 
mission,  and  he  longed  to  live  that  he  might  accom 
plish  them.  It  must  have  been  in  such  a  mood  that, 
soon  after  coming  to  Baltimore,  he  wrote  to  his  wife, 
who  was  detained  in  the  South  : 


xxii  MEMORIAL. 

"  So  many  great  ideas  for  Art  are  born  to  me  each 
day,  I  am  swept  away  into  the  land  of  All-Delight  by 
their  strenuous  sweet  whirlwind  ;  and  I  find  within 
myself  such  entire,  yet  humble,  confidence  of  possess 
ing  every  single  element  of  power  to  carry  them  all 
out,  save  the  little  paltry  sum  of  money  that  would 
suffice  to  keep  us  clothed  and  fed  in  the  meantime. 

"  I  do  not  understand  this." 

Lanier's  was  an  unknown  name,  and  he  would  write 
only  in  obedience  to  his  own  sense  of  art,  and  he  did 
not  fit  his  wares  to  the  taste  of  those  who  buy  verse. 
It  was  to  comfort  his  wife,  in  this  period  of  greatest 
uncertainty  whether  he  had  not  erred  in  launching  in 
the  sea  of  literature,  that  he  wrote  again  a  letter  of 
frankest  confession  : 

"I  will  make  to  thee  a  little  confession  of  faith, 
telling  thee,  my  dearer  self,  in  words,  what  I  do  not 
say  to  my  not-so  dear-self  except  in  more  modest 
feeling. 

"  Know,  then,  that  disappointments  were  inevita 
ble,  and  will  still,  come  until  I  have  fought  the  bat 
tle  which  every  great  artist  has  had  to  fight  since 
time  began.  This — dimly  felt  while  I  was  doubtful 
of  my  own  vocation  and  powers — is  clear  as  the  sun 
to  me  now  that  \Jtnow:  through  the  fiercest  tests  of 
life,  that  I  am  in  soul,  and  shall  be  in  life  and  utter. 
ance^a  great  poet. 

"  The"  philosophy  of  my  disappointments  is,  that 
there  is  so  much  cleverness  stapling  betwixt  me  and 
the  public  ...  Richard  Wagner  is  sixty  years 
old  and  over,  and  one-half  of  the  most  cultivated  ar 
tists  of  the  most  cultivated  art-land^  quoad  music,  still 
think  him  an  absurdity.  Says  Schumann  in  one  of 
his  letters  :  '  The  publishers  will  not  listen  to  me  for 
a  moment '  ;  and  dost  thpu  not  remember  ''Schubert, 
and  Richter,  and  JohnvKeats,  and  a  sweet  host  more  ? 

"  Now  this  is  written  because  I  sit  here  in  my  room 
daily,  and  picture  thee  picturing  me  worn,  and  troub 


MEMORIAL.  XXlii 

led,  or  disheartened  ;  and  because  I  do  not  wish  thee 
to  think  up  any  groundless  sorrow  in  thy  soul.  Of 
course  I  have  my  keen  sorrows,  momentarily  more 
keen  than  I  would  like  any  one  to  know  ;  but  I 
thank  God  that  in  a  knowledge  of  Him  and  of  my 
self  which  cometh  to  me  daily  in  fresh  revelations,  I 
have  a  steadfast  firmament  of  blue,  in  which  all  clouds 
soon  dissolve.  I  have  wanted  to  say  this  several  times 
of  late,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  bring  one's  self  to  talk  so 
of  one's  self,  even  to  one's  dearer  self. 

"  Have  then     ...     no  fears  nor  anxieties  in  my 
behalf  ;  look  upon  all  my  disappointments  as  mere 
witnesses  that  art_has  no  enemy  so   unrelenting  as 
qleverngjs,  and  as  rough  weather  that  seasonstimber.    . 
It  is  of  little  consequence  whether  /fail  ;  the  /in  the 
matter  is  a  small  business  :  '  Que  mon  nom  soitflttri, 
que  la  France  soit  libre  !  '  quoth   Danton  ;  which  is  to      ,     . 
say,  interpreted  by  my  environment  :  Let   my  name  4  4v/v*-A. 
iperish — the  poetry  is  good  poetry  and  the  music  is  <J 
'good  music,  and  beauty  dieth  not,  and  the  heart  that  tf  ^T 
heeds  it  will  find  it." 

Having  now  given  sacredly  to  art  what  vital  forces 
his  will  could  command,  he  devoted  himself,  with  an 
intense  energy,  to  the  study  of  English  literature, 
making  himself  a  master  of  Anglo-Saxon  and  early 
English  texts,  and  pursuing  the  study  down  to  our 
own  times.  He  read  freely,  also,  and  with  a  scholar's 
nice  eagerness,  in  further  fields  of  study,  but  all  with 
a  view  to  gathering  the  stores  which  a  full  man  might 
draw  from  in  the  practice  of  poetic  art ;  for  he  had 
that  large  compass  which  sees  and  seeks  truths  in 
various  excursions,  and  no  field  of  history,  or  philol 
ogy,  or  philosophy,  or  science  found  him  unsympa* 
thetic.  The  opportunity  for  these  studies  opened  a 
new  era  in  his  development,  while  we  begin  to  find 
a  crystallization  of  that  theory  of  formal  verse  which  _ 
headopted,  and  a  growing  power  to  master  it.  To 


XXIV  MEMORIAL. 

this  artistic  side  of  poetry  he  gave,  from  this  time, 
very  special  study,  until  he  had  formulated  it  in  his 
lectures  in  the  Johns  Hopkins  University,  and  in  his 
volume  "  The  Science  of  English  Verse." 

But  from  this  time  the  struggle  against  his  fata} 
disease  was  conscious  and  constant.  In  May,  1874, 
he  visited  Florida  under  an  engagement  to  write  a 
book  for  distribution  by  a  railroad  company.  Two 
months  of  the  summer  were  spent  with  his  family  at 
Sunnyside,  Ga.,  where  "  Corn "  was  written.  This 
poem,  published  in  Lippincotfs  Magazine,  was  much 
copied,  and  made  him  known  to  many  admirers.  No 
one  of  these  was  of  so  much  value  to  him  as  Bayard 
Taylor,  at  whose  suggestion  he  was  chosen  to  write 
the  cantata  for  the  opening  of  the  Centennial  Expo 
sition  at  Philadelphia,  and  with  whom  he  carried  on 
a  correspondence  so  long  as  Mr.  Taylor  lived.  To 
Mr.  Taylor  he  owed  introductions  of  value  to  other 
writers,  and  for  his  sympathy  and  aid  his  letters  prove 
that  he  felt  very  grateful.  In  his  first  letter  to  Mr. 
Taylor,  written  August  7,  1875,  he  says  : 

"  I  could  never  describe  to  you  what  a  mere 
drought  and  famine  my  life  has  been,  as  regards  that 
multitude  of  matters  which  I  fancy  one  absorbs  when 
one  is  in  an  atmosphere  of  art,  or  when  one  is  in  con 
versational  relation  with  men  of  letters,  with  travel 
lers,  with  persons  who  have  either  seen,  or  written, 
or  done  large  things.  Perhaps  you  know  that,  with 
us  of  the  younger  generation  in  the  South  since  the 
;v;ir,  pretty  much  the  whole  of  life  has  been  merely 
not  dying." 

The  selection  of  Mr.  Lanier  to  write  the  Centennial 
Cantata  first  brought  his  name  into  general  notice  ; 
but  its  publication,  in  advance  of  the  music  by  Dud 


MEMORIAL.  XXV 

ley  Buck,  was  the  occasion  of  an  immense  amount  of 
ridicule,  more  or  less  good-humored.  It  was  written 
by  a  musician  to  go  with  music  under  the  new  rela«  \/ 
tions  of  poetry  to_jniisic  brought  about  by  the  great 
modern  development  of  the  orchestra,  and  was  not  tc 
be  judged  without  its  orchestral  accompaniment.  The 
criticism  it  received  pained  our  poet,  but  did  not  at 
all  affect  his  faith  in  his  theories  of  art.  To  his  father 
he  wrote  from  New  York,  May  8,  1876  : 

"  My  experience  in  the  varying  judgments  given 
about  poetry  .  .  .  has  all  converged  upon  one 
solitary  principle,  and  the  experience  of  the  artist  in 
all  ages  is  reported  by  history  to  be  of  precisely  the 
same  direction.  That  principle  is,  that  the  artist  shalK 
put  forth,  humbly  and  lovingly,  and  without  bitter-j 
ness  against  opposition,  the  very  best  and  highest, 
that  is  within  him,  utterly  regardless  of  contemporary  I 
criticism.  What  possible  claim  can  contemporary 
criticism  set  up  to  respect — that  criticism  which  cruci 
fied  Jesus  Christ,  stoned  Stephen,  hooted  Paul  for  a 
madman,  tried  Luther  for  a  criminal,  tortured  Galileo, 
bound  Columbus  in  chains,  drove  Dante  into  a  hell 
of  exile,  made  Shakspere  write  the  sonnet,  'When 
in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes,'  gave  Milton 
five  pounds  for  '  Paradise  Lost,'  kept  Samuel  Johnson 
cooling  his  heels  on  Lord  Chesterfield's  doorstep, 
reviled  Shelley  as  an  unclean  dog,  killed  Keats, 
cracked  jokes  on  Gliick,  Schubert,  Beethoven,  Ber 
lioz,  and  Wagner,  and  committed  so  many  other  im 
pious  follies  and  stupidities  that  a  thousand  letters 
like  this  could  not  suffice  even  to  catalogue  them  ?  " 

Since  first  coming  to  the  North  in  September,  1873, 
Mr.  Lanier  had  been  separated  from  his  family.  The 
two  happy  months  with  them  after  his  visit  to  Florida 
was  followed  by  several  other  briefer  visits.  The 
winters  of  1874-75  and  1875-76  found  him  still  in  Bal  V 


XXVI  MEMORIAL. 

timore,  playing  at  the  Peabody,  pursuing  his  studies 
and  writing  the  "  Symphony,"  the  "  Psalm  of  the 
West,"  the  "  Cantata,"  and  some  shorter  poems,  with 
a  series  of  prose  descriptive  articles  for  Lippincotfs 
Magazine.  In  the  summer  of  1876  he  called  his 
family  to  join  him  at  West  Chester,  Pa.  This  was  au 
thorized  by  an  engagement  to  write  the  Life  of  Char 
lotte  Cushman.  The  work  was  begun,  but  the  en 
gagement  was  broken  two  months  later,  owing  to  the 
illness  of  the  friend  of  the  family  who  was  to  provide 
the  material  from  the  mass  of  private  correspondence. 

Following  this  disappointment  a  new  cold  was  in 
curred,  and  his  health  became  so  much  impaired  that 
in  November  the  physicians  told  him  he  could  not 
expect  to  live  longer  than^May,  unless  he  sought 
a  warmer  climate.  About  the  middle  of  December 
he  started  with  his  wife  for  the  Gulf  coast,  and  visited 
Tampa,  Fla.,  gaining  considerable  benefit  from  the 
mild  climate.  In  April  he  ventured  North  again, 
tarrying  through  the  spring  with  his  friends  in 
Georgia  ;  and,  after  a  summer  with  his  own  family 
in  Chadd's  Ford,  Pa.,  a  final  move  was  ventured  in 
October  to  Baltimore  as  home.  Here  he  resumed  his 
old  place  in  the  Peabody  orchestra,  and  continuedjp 
play  there  for  threejvinters. 

The  Old  English  studies  which  he  had  pursued 
with  such  deep  delight,  he  now  put  to  use  in  ajcourse 
of  lectures  on  Elizabethan  Verse,  given  in  a  private 
parlor  to  a  class  of  thirty  ladies.  This  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  more  ambitious  "  Shakspere— Course  "  of 
lectures  in  the  smaller  hall  of  the  Peabody  Institute. 
The  undertaking  was  immensely  cheered  on  and 
greatly  praised,  but  was  a  financial  failure.  It  opened 
*,he  way,  however,  to  one  of  the  chiefest  delights  o 


MEMORIAL.  XXVl'i 

his  life,  his  appointment  as  lecturer  on  English 
literature  for  the  ensuing  year  at  the  Johns  Hopkins 
v  University.  After  some  correspondence  on  the  sut> 
ject  with  President  Oilman,  he  received  notice  on 
his  birthday,  1879,  of  his  appointment,  with  a  salary 
attached  (it  may  be  mentioned),  which  gave  him  the 
first  income  assured  in  any  year  since  his  marriage. 
This  stimulated  him  to  new  life,  for  he  was  now  barely 
able  to  walk  after  a  severe  illness  and  renewed  hem 
orrhage. 

The  last  two  years  had  been  more  fruitful  in  verse 
than  any  that  had  gone  before,  as  he  had  now  ac 
quired  confidence  in  his  view  of  the  principles  of  art. 
In  1875  he  had  written  : 

"  In  this  little  song  ['  Special  Pleading']  I  have  be«  : 
gun  to  dare  to  give  myself  some  freedom  in  my  own 
peculiar  style,  and  have  allowed  myself  to  treat 
words,  similes,  and  metres  with  such  freedom  as  I 
desired.  The  result  convinces  me  that  I  can  do  so 
now  safely." 

Among  his  poems  of  this  period  may  be  men 
tioned  "A  Song  of  the  Future,"  "The  Revenge  of 
Hamish,"  and — what  are  excellent  examples  of  the 
kind  of  art  of  which  he  had  now  gained  command 
—"The  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee,"  and  "A  Song  •/ 
of  Love."  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  wrote  "  The 
Marshes  of  Glynn,"  his  most  ambitious  poem  thus 
far.  and  one  which  he  intended  to  follow  with  a  series 
of  "  Hyrnns  of  the  Marshes,"  which  he  left  incom 
plete. 

The  summer  of  1879  was  spent  at  Rockingham 
Springs,  Va.,  and  here,  in  six  weeks,  was  begun  and 
finished  his  volume,  "  Science  of  English  Verse." 
Another  severe  illness  prostrated  him  in  September, 


xxviii  MEMORIAL. 

but  the  necessity  of  work  allowed  no  time  for  such 
distractions.  In  October  he  opened  three  lecture 
courses  in  young  ladies'  schools  ;  and  through  the 
winter,  notwithstanding  a  most  menacing  illness 
about  January  ist,  he  was  in  continuous  rehearsals 
and  concerts  at  the  Peabody,  and  besides  miscella« 
neous  writings  and  studies,  gave  weekly  ten  lectures 
upon  English  literature,  two  of  them  public  at  the 
University,  two  to  University  classes,  and  the  remain 
ing  six  at  private  schools.  The  University  public 
lectures  upon  English  Verse,  more  especially  Shak- 
spere's,  in  part  contained,  and  in  part  were  intro 
ductory  to,  "  The  Science  of  English  Verse." 

The  final  consuming  fever  opened  in  May,  1880. 
In  July  he  went  with  Mrs.  Lanier  and  her  father  to 
West  Chester,  Pa.,  where  a  fourth  son  was  born  in 
August.  Unable  to  bear  the  fall  climate,  he  re 
turned,  alone,  early  in  September  to  his  Baltimore 
home. 

This  winter  brought  a  hand-to-hand  battle  for  life. 
In  December  he  came  to  the  very  door  of  death.  Be 
fore  February  he  had  essayed  the  open  air  to  test 
himself  for  his  second  University  lecture  course.  His 
improvement  ceased  on  that  first  day  of  exposure. 
Nevertheless,  by  April  he  had  gone  through  the 
twelve  lectures  (there  were  to  have  been  twenty),  which 
were  later  published  under  the  title  "  The  English 
Novel."  A  few  of  the  earlier  lectures  he  penned 
himself  ;  the  rest  he  was  obliged  to  dictate  to  his  wife. 
With  the  utmost  care  of  himself,  going  in  a  closed 
carriage  and  sitting  during  his  lecture,  his  strength 
was  so  exhausted  that  the  struggle  for  breath  in  the 
carriage  on  his  return  seemed  each  time  to  threaten  the 
end.  Those  who  heard  him  listened  with  a  sort  of 


MEMORIAL.  XXIX 

fascinated  terror,  as   in  doubt  whether   the  hoarded 
breath  would  suffice  to  the  end  of  the  hour. 

It  was  in  December  of  this  winter,  when  too  feeble 
to  raise  his  food  to  his  mouth,  with  a  fever  temper 
ature  of  104  degrees,  that  he  pencilled  his  last  and  \/ 
greatest  poem,  "Sunrise,"  one  of  his  projected  series 
of  the  "  Hymns  of  the  Marshes."  It  seemed  as  if  he 
were  in  fear  that  he  would  die  with  it  unuttered. 

At  the  end  of  April,  1881,  he  made  his  last  visit  to 
New  York,  to  complete  arrangements  with  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons  for  the  publication  of  other  books  of 
the  King  Arthur  series.  But  in  a  day  or  two  aggra 
vated  illness  compelled  his  wife  to  join  him,  and  his 
medical  adviser  pronounced  tent-life  in  a  pure,  high 
climate  to  be  the  last  hope.  His  brother  Clifford  was 
summoned  from  Alabama  to  assist  in  carrying  out 
the  plans  for  encamping  near  Asheville,  N.  C.,  whither 
the  brothers  went  soon  after  the  middle  of  May.  By 
what  seemed  a  hopeful  coincidence  he  was  tendered 
a  commission  to  write  an  account  of  the  region  in  a 
railroad  interest,  as  he  had  done  six  years  before  with 
Florida.  This  provided  a  monthly  salary,  which  was 
to  be  the  dependence  of  himself  and  family.  The 
materials  for  this  book  were  collected,  and  the  book 
thoroughly  shaped  in  the  author's  mind  when  July 
ended  ;  but  his  increasing  anguish  kept  him  from 
dictating,  often  from  all  speech  for  hours,  and  he 
carried  the  plan  away  with  him. 

A  site  was  chosen  on  the  side  of  Richmond  Hill, 
three  miles  from  Asheville.  Clifford  returned  to 
Alabama,  after  seeing  the  tents  pitched  and  floored, 
and  Mrs.  Lanier  came  with  her  infant  to  take  her 
place  as  nurse  for  the  invalid.  Early  in  July  Mr. 
Lanier  the  father,  with  his  wife,  joined  them  in  the 


XXX  MEMORIAL. 

encampment.  As  the  passing  weeks  brought  no  im 
provement  to  the  sufferer  he  started,  August  4th,  on 
a  carriage  journey  across  the  mountains  with  his  wife. 
to  test  the  climate  of  Lynn,  Polk  County,  N.  C. 
There  a  deadly  illness  attacked  him.  No  return 
was  possible,  and  Clifford  was  summoned  by  tele* 
graph,  and  assisted  his  father  in  removing  the  en 
campment  to  Lynn.  Deceived  by  hope,  and  pressed 
by  business  cares,  Clifford  went  home  August  24th, 
and  the  father  and  his  wife  five  days  later,  expect 
ing  to  return  soon.  Mrs.  Lanier's  own  words,  as 
written  in  the  brief  "annals"  of  his  life  furnished 
me,  will  tell  the  end  : 

"  We  are  left  alone  "  (August  agth)  "  with  one  an 
other.  On  the  last  night  of  the  summer  comes  a 
change.  His  love  and  immortal  will  hold  off  the  de 
stroyer  of  our  summer  yet  one  more  week,  until  the 
forenoon  of  September  yth,  and  then  falls  the  frost, 
and  that  unfaltering  will  renders  its  supreme  sub 
mission  to  the  adored  will  of  God." 

So  the  tragedy  ended,  the  manly  struggle  carried 
on  with  indomitable  resolution  against  illness  and 
want  and  care.  Just  when  he  seemed  to  have  con 
quered  success  enough  to  assure  him  a  little  leisure 
to  write  his  poems,  then  his  feeble  but  resolute  hold 
upon  earth  was  exhausted.  What  he  left  behind 
him  was  written  with  his  life-blood.  High  above  all 
the  evils  of  the  world  he  lived  in  a  realm  of  ideal 
serenity,  as  if  it  were  the  business  of  life  to  conquer 
difficulties. 

This  is  not  the  place  for  an  essay  on  the  genius  of 
Sidney  Lanier.  It  is  enough  to  call  attention  to  some 
marked  points  in  his  character  and  work. 

He  had  more  than  Milton's  love  for  music.     Ho 


MEMORIAL.  XXX? 

sung  like  a  bard  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  harp. 
He    lived   in  sweet  sounds  :   forever  conscious  of  a\ 
ceaseless  flow  of  melody  which,  if  resisted  for  awhile  \ 
by  business  occupations,  would  swell  again  in  its  nat-   I 
ural  current  and  break  at  his  bidding  into  audible  / 
music. 

We  have  the  following  recognition  of  his  genius 
from  Asger  Hamerik,  his  Director  for  six  years  in 
the  Peabody  Symphony  Orchestra  of  Baltimore  : 

"  To  him  as  a  child  in  his  cradle  Music  was  given : 
the  heavenly  gift  to  feel  and  to  express  himself  in 
tones.  His  human  nature  was  like  an  enchanted  in 
strument,  a  magic  flute,  or  the  lyre  of  Apollo,  need 
ing  but  a  breath  or  a  touch  to  send  its  beauty  out  into 
the  world.  It  was  indeed  irresistible  that  he  should 
turn  with  those  poetical  feelings  which  transcend 
language  to  the  penetrating  gentleness  of  the  flute, 
or  the  infinite  passion  of  the  violin  ;  for  there  was  an 
agreement,  a  spiritual  correspondence  between  his 
nature  and  theirs,  so  that  they  mutually  absorbed 
and  expressed  each  other.  In  his  hands  the  flute  no 
longer  remained  a  mere  material  instrument,  but  was 
transformed  into  a  voice  that  set  heavenly  harmoniet 
into  vibration.  Its  tones  developed  colors,  warmth, 
and  a  low  sweetness  of  unspeakable  poetry  ;  they 
were  not  only  true  and  pure,  but  poetic,  allegoric  as 
it  were,  suggestive  of  the  depths  and  heights  of 
being  and  of  the  delights  which  the  earthly  ear  never 
hears  and  the  earthly  eye  never  sees.  No  doubt  his 
firm  faith  in  these  lofty  idealities  gave  him  the  power 
to  present  them  to  our  imaginations,  and  thus  by  the 
aid  of  the  higher  language  of  Music  to  inspire  others 
with  that  sense  of  beauty  in  which  he  constantly  dwelt. 

"  His  conception  of  music  was  not  reached  by  an 
analytic  study  of  note  by  notef  but  was  intuitiveand 
spontaneous  ;   like  a  woman  s  reason  :   he  lelt  it  soV 
because  he  felt  it  so,  and  his  delicate  perception  re 
quired  no  more  logical  form  of  reasoning. 


XXX11  MEMORIAL. 

"His  playing  appealed  alike  to  the  musically  learned 
and  to  the  unlearned — for  he  would  magnetize  the 
listener  ;  but  the  artist  felt  in  his  performance  the 
superiority  of  the  momentary  living  inspiration  to  all 
the  rules  and  shifts  of  mere  technical  scholarship. 
His  act  was  not  only  the  art  of  art,  but  an  art  aboyjs 
art. 

"  I  will  never  forget  the  impression  he  made  on  me 
when  he  played  the  flute-concerto  of  Emil  Hartmann 
at  a  Peabody  symphony  concert,  in  1878  :  his  tall, 
handsome,  manly  presence,  his  flute  breathing  noble 
sorrows,  noble  joys,  the  orchestra  softly  responding. 
The  audience  was  spellbound.  Such  distinction, 
such  refinement !  Hejstood^the  master,  the  genius." 

In  the  one  novel  which  he  wrote  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five,  he  makes  one  of  his  characters  say : 

/  "To  make  a  home  out  of  a'  household,  given  the  raw 
/materials — to  wit,  wife,  children,  a  friend  or  two,  and 
a  house — two  other  things  are  necessary.  These  are 
a  good  fire  and  good  music.  And  inasmuch  as  we 
can  do  without  the  fire  for  half  the  year,  I  may  say 
music  is  the  one^ essential."  "  Late  explorers  say  they 
have~Ioiind  soihe  nations  that  have  no  God  ;  but  I 
have  not  read  of  any  that  had  no  music." 
means  harmony,  Vrmony  means  if>w 
\T36d!" 


The  theoretical  relation  between  music  and  poetry 
would  hardly  have  attracted  his  study  had  it  not  been 
that  his  mind  was  as  truly  philosophically  and  scien 
tifically  accurate,  as  it  was  poetically  sensuous  and 
imaginative.  In  a  letter  to  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman  he 
complained  that  "in  all  directions  the  poetic  art  was 
suffering  from  the  shameful  circumstance  that  criti 
cism  was  without  a  scientific  basis  for  even  the  most 
elementary  of  its  judgments." 

Although  the  work  was  irksome  to  him,  he  could 


MEMORIAL. 


xxxin 


V    ' 

Vr 


not  go  on  writing  at  hap-hazard,  trusting  to  his  own 
mere  taste  to  decide  what  was  good,  until  he  had 
Settled,  for _  himsejf  .sr-jgnti finally  what  are  the .  laws  OJ 
poetical  construction.  This  accounts  for  his  exposi 
tion  of  the  laws  of  beauty  in  that  unique  work,  "  The 
Science  of  English  Verse,"  which  was  based  on  Dante's 
thought,  "The  best  conceptions  cannot  be  save  where 
science  and  genius  are."  The  book  is  chiefly  taken 
up  with  a  discussion  of  rhythm  and  tone-color  in 
verse  ;  and  it  is  well  within  the  truth  to  say  that  it  is 
the  most  complete  and  thorough  original  invgstiga; 
tion  of  the  formal  elernent  in  poetry  in  existence^ 
he  rhythm  he  treated  as  the  marking  of  definite  time 
measurements,  which  could  be  indicated  by  bars  in 
musical  notation,  having  their  regular  time  and  their 
regular  number  of  notes,  with  their  proper  accent] 
To  this  time  measurement  Mr.  Lanier  gave  the  pre 
eminence  which  Coleridge  and  other  writers,  have 
given  to  accent.  He  conceived  of  a  line  of  poetry  as 
consisting  of  a  definite  number  of  bars  (or  feet),  each 
bar  containing,  in  dactylic  metre,  three  equal  "  eighth 
nqtes,"  of  which  the  first  is  accented,  or  in  iambic 
metre  (which  has  the  same  "triple"  time),  of  one 
"eighth  note,"  and  one  "quarter  note,"  with  the 
accent  on  the  second.  Thus  the  accented  syllable  is 
not  necessarily  "  longer  "  than  the  unaccented,  except 
as  the  rhythm  happens  to  make  it  so.  This  idea  is 
very  fully  developed  and  with  great  wealth  of  curious 
Old  English  illustrations.  Under  the  designation  of. 
"  tone-color  "  he  treats  very  suggestively  of  rhyme,  ' 
alliteration,  and  vowel  and  consonant  distribution, 
showing  how  the  recurrence  of  euphonic  vowels  and 
consonants  secures  that  rich  variety  of  tone-color  t 
which  music  gives  in  orchestration.  The  work  thus 


XXXIV  MEMORIAL. 

breaks  away  from  the  classic  grammarian's  tables 
of  trochees  and  anapaests,  and  discusses  the  forms 
of  poetry  in  the  terms  of  music  ;  and  of  both  tone- 
color  and  of  rhythm  he  would  say,  in  the  words  of 
old  King  James,  "  the_yery  touch-stone  whereof  is 


Illustrations  of  these  technical  beauties  of  musical 
rhythm,  and  vowel  and  consonant  distribution,  abound 
in  Lanier's  poetry.  Such  is  the  "  Song  of  the  Chat- 
tahoochee,"  which  deserves  a  place  beside  Tennyson's 
"  Brook."  It  strikes  a  higher  key,  and  is  scarcely 
less  musical.  Such  passages  are  numerous  in  his 
"  Sunrise  on  the  Marshes,"  as  in  the  lines  beginning, 

"  Not  slower  than  majesty  moves," 
or  the  other  lines  beginning, 

"  Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made  !  " 

These  investigations  in  the  science  of  verse  bore 
their  fruit  especially  in  the  poems  written  during  the 
last  three  or  four  years  of  his  life,  when  his  sense  of 
the  solemn  sacredness  of  Art  became  more  profound, 
and  he  acquired  a  greater  ease  in  putting  into  prac 
tice  his  theory  of  verse.  And  this  made  him  Jhor.-.- 
o_ughly  original.  He  was  no  imitator  either  of  Tenny 
son  or  of  Swinburne,  though  musically  he  is  nearer 
to  them  than  to  any  others  of  his  day.  We  constantly 
•notice  in  his  verse  that  dainty  effect  which  the  ear 
I  loves,  and  which  comes  from  deft  marshalling  of 
Iconsonants  and  vowels,  so  that  they  shall  add  their 
suppler  and  subtler  reinforcement  to  the  steady  in 
fantry  tramp  of  rhythm.  Of  this  delicate  art,  which 
is  much  more  than  mere  alliteration,  which  is  con 
cerned  with  dominant  accented  vowels  as  well  as  con 
sonants,  with  the  easy  flow  of  liquids  and  Jricatives, 


MEMORIAL.  XXXV 

and  with  the  progressive  opening  or  closing  of  the 
organs  of  articulation,  the  laws  are  not  easy  to  formu 
late,  but  examples  abound  in  Lanier's  poems. 

Mr.  Stedman,  poet  and  critic,  raises  the  question 
whether  Lanier's  extreme  conjunction  of  the  artistia 
with  the  poetic  temperament,  which  he  says  no  mar/ 
has  more  clearly  displayed,  did  not  somewhat  hamper 
and  delay  his  power  of  adequate  expression.  Possi 
bly,  but  he  was  building  not  for  the  day,  but  for  time. 
He  must  work  out  his  laws  of  poetry,  even  if  he  had 
almost  to  invent  its  language  ;  for  to  him  was  given 
the  power  of  analysis  as  well  as  of  construction,  and 
he  was  too  conscientious  to  do  anything  else  than  to 
find  out  what  was  best  and  why,  and  then  tell  and 
teach  it  as  he  had  learnt  it,  even  if  men  said  that  his 
late  spring  was  delaying  bud  and  blossom. 

But  it  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  find  in  Lanier 
only,  or  chiefly,  the  artist.  He  had  the  substance  of 
poetry.  He  possessed  both  elements,  as  Stedman 
says,  "  in  extreme  conjunction."  He  overflowed  with 
fancy.  His  imagination  needed  to  be  held  in  check. 
This  was  recognized  in  "  Corn,"  and  appears  more 
fully  in  "  TheSymphony, "  the.  first  productions  which 
gave  him  wide  recognition  as  a  poet.  Illustrations 
too  much  abound  to  allow  selection. 

And  for  the  substance  of  invention  there  needed, 
in  Lanier's  judgment,  large  and  exact  knowledge  of 
the  world's  facts.  A  poet  must  be  a  student  of  things, 
truths,  and  men.  His  own  studies  were  wide  and  his 
scholarship  accurate.  He  did  not  believe  that  art 
comes  all  by  instinct,  without  work.  In  one  of 'his 
keen  criticisms  of  poets  he  said  of  Edgar  A.  Poe, 
whom  he  esteemed  more  highly  than  his  countrymen 
are  wont  to  do  :  "  The  trouble  with  Poe  was,  he  did 


XXXVI  MEMORIAL. 

not  know  enough.  He  needed  to  know  a  good  many 
more  things  in  order  to  be  a  great  poet."  Lanier  had 
"a  passion  for  the  exact  truth,"  and  all  of  it. 

The  intense  sacredness  with  which  Lanier  invested 
Art  held  him  thrall  to  the  highest  ethical  ideas.  To 
him  the  most  beautiful  thing  of  all  was  Right.  He 
loved  the  words,  "  the  beauty  of  holiness,"  and  it 
/pleased  him  to  reverse  the  phrase  and  call  it  "  the 
*  holiness  of  beauty."  When  one  reads  Lanier,  he  is 
reminded  of  two  writers,  Milton  and  Ruskin.  More 
than  any  other  great  English  authors  they  are  dom 
inated  by  this  beauty  of  holiness.  Lanier  was  satu 
rated  with  it.  It  shines  out  of  every  line  he  wrote.  It 
is  not  that  he  never  wrote  a  maudlin  line,  but  that 
every  thought  was  lofty.  That  it  must  be  so  was  a 
first  postulate  of  his  Art.  Hear  his  words  to  the  stu 
dents  of  Johns  Hopkins  University  : 

"  Let  any  sculptor  hew  us  out  the  most  ravishing 
combination  of  tender  curves  and  spheric  softness 
that  ever  stood  for  woman  ;  yet  if  the  lip  have  a  cer 
tain  fulness  that  hints  of  the  flesh,  if  the  brow  be  in 
sincere,  if  in  the  minutest  p£Tticular  the  physical 
beauty  suggest  a  moral  ugliness,  that  sculptor — 
unless  he  be  portraying  a  moral  ugliness  for  a  moral 
purpose — may  as  well  give  over  his  marble  for  pav 
ing-stones.  Time,  whose  judgments  are  inexorably 
moral,  will  not  accept  his  work.  For,  indeed,  we  may 
jsay  that  he  who  has  not  yet  perceived  how  artistic 
peauty  and  moral  beauty  are  convergent  lines  which 
[run  back  into  a  common  ideal  origin,  and  who  there 
fore  is  not  afire  with  moral  beauty  just  as  with  artistic 
beauty — that  he,  in  short,  who  has  not  come  to  that 
stage  of  quiet  and  eternal  frenzy  in  which  the  beauty 
of  holiness  jand  the  holiness  of  bea"ty  mftan  nnft 
thing,  burn  as  one  fire,  shine  as  one  light  within  him' 
he  is  not  yet  the  great  artist." 


/I 


MEMORIAL.  XXXVli 

And  he  returns  to  the  theme  : 

"  Can  not  one  say  with  authority  to  the  young 
artist,  whether  working  in  stone,  in  color,  in  tones,  or 
in  character-forms  of  the  novel  :  So  far  from  dreading 
that  your  moral  purpose  will  interfere  with  your 
beautiful  creation,  go  forward  in  the  clear  conviction 
that  unless  you  are  suffused  —  soul  and  body,  one  might 
say  —  with  that  moral  purpose  which  finds  its  largest 
expression  in  love  ;  that  is,  the  love  of  all  things  in 
their  proper  relation  ;  unless  you  are  suffused  with 
this  love,  do  not  dare  to  meddle  with  beauty;  unless 
you  are  suffused  with  beauty,  do  not  dare  to  meddle 
with  love  ;  unless  you  are  suffused  with  truth,  do  not 
dare  to  meddle  with  goodness  ;  in  a  word,  unjj3ss_y_ou 
with  truth.  wisdom,  goodness. 


abandon  the  hope  that  the  ages  will  accept  you  as_a 
artist.^"" 

Thus  was  it  true,  as  was  said  of  his  work  by  his 
associate,  Dr.  Wm.  Hand  Browne,  that  "  one  thread  of 
purpose  runs  through  it  all.     This  thread  is  found  in 
his  fervid  love  for  his  fellow-men,  and  his  neverceas-t 
ing  endeavors  to_kindle_an  enthusiasm  for  beauty,  I 
purity,  .nobilityoflife,  which  Jhg,  hpidjiShe  poet's  j 
first_duty  to  teach  and  to  exemplify."     And  so  there 
came  into   his  verse  a  solemn,  worshipful  element, 
dominating  it  everywhere,  and  giving  loftiness  to  its 
beauty.     For  he  was  the  democrat  whom  he  described 
in  contrast   to   Whitman's  mere  brawny,  six-footed, 
open-shirted  hero,  whose  strength  was  only  that  of 
the  biceps  : 

"  My  (democrat,  the  democrat  whom  I  contemplate  i 
with  pleasure,  the  democrat  who  is  to  write  or  to  read  I 
the  poetry  of  the  future,  may  have  a  mere  thread  for  | 
his  biceps,  yet  he  shall  be  strong  enough  to  handle  t 
hell;  he  shall  play  ball  with  the  earth;  and  albeit  hisl 
stature  may  be  no  more  than  a  boy's,  he  shall  still  be  ' 


f 


XXXV111  MEMORIAL. 

taller  than  the  great  redwoods  of  California ;  his 
height  shall  be  the  height  of  great  resolution,  and 
love,  and  faith,  and  beauty,  and  knowledge,  and  subtle 
meditation  ;  his  head  shall  be  forever  among  the 
stars." 

This  standard  he  could  not  forget  in  his  judgments 
of  artists.  There  was  something  in  Whitman  which 
"refreshed  him  like  harsh  salt  spray,"  but  to  Whit 
man's  lawlessness  of  art  he  was  an  utter  foe.  We  find 
it  written  down  in  his  notes  : 

I     "  Whitman  is  poetry's  butcher.     Huge  raw  collops 
slashed  from  the  rump  of  poetry,  and  never  mind 

•gristle — is  what  Whitman  feeds  our  souls  with." 
"""As  near  as  I  can  make  it  out,  Whitman's  argu 
ment  seems  to  be,  that,  because  a  prairie   is  wide, 
therefore  debauchery  is  admirable,  and  because  the 
Mississippi  is  long,  therefore  every  American  is  God." 

So  he  says  of  Swinburne  : 

"  He  invited  me  to  eat ;  the  service  was  silver  and 
gold,  but  no  food  therein  save  pepper  and  salt." 

And  of  William  Morris  : 

"  He  caught  a  crystal  cupful  of  the  yellow  light  of 
sunset,  and  persuading  himself  to  dream  it  wine, 
drank  it  with  a  sort  of  smile." 

— .. 

Though  not  what  would  be  called  a  religious  writer, 
Lanier's  large  and  deep  thought  took    him   to   the 
,  deepest  spiritual  faiths,  and  the  vastness  of  Nature 
Irew  him  to  a  trust  in  the  Infinite  above  us.     Thus, 
lis  young  search  after  God  and  truth  brought  him 
into  the   membership   of   the    Presbyterian    Church 
while  at  Oglethorpe  College  ;  and  though   in  after 
years  his  creed  became  broader  than  that  imposed  by 
the  Church  he  had  joined  on  its  clergy,  he  could  not 


MEMORIAL.  XXXIX 

outgrow  the  simple  faith  and  consecration  which  are 
all  it  requires  of  its  membership.  His  college  note* 
book  records  his  earnestness  ; 

"  Liberty,  patriotism,  and  civilization  are  on  their 
knees  before  the  men  of  the  South,  and  with  clasped 
hands  and  straining  eyes  are  begging  them  to  become 
Christians." 

How  naturally  his  large  faith  in  God  finds  express 
sion  in  his  "  Marshes  of  Glynn  ; "  or  his  reverent  dis- 
cipleship  of  the  great  Artist  and  Master  in  his  "  Ballad 
of  the  Trees  and  the  Master,"  or  his  "The  Crystal," 
which  was  Christ.  Yet,  with  not  a  whit  less  of  wor- 
shipfulness  and  consecration,  there  grew  in  him  a  re 
pugnance  to  the  sectarianism  of  the  Churches  which 
put  him  somewhat  out  of  sympathy  with  their  formal 
organizations.  He  wrote,  in  what  may  have  been  a 
sketch  for  a  poem  :  <J 

"  I  fled  in  tears  from  the  men's  ungodly  quarrel  V 
about  God.  I  fled  in  tears  to  the  woods,  and  laid  me  \\ 
down  on  the  earth.  Then  somewhat  like  the  beating  n 
of  many  hearts  came  up  to  me  out  of  the  ground  ;  V 
and  I  looked  and  my  cheek  lay  close  to  a  violet.  Then  / 
my  heart  took  courage,  and  I  said  :  / 

"  I  know  that  thou  art  the  word  of  my  God,  dear/ 
Violet  : 

And  Oh,  the  ladder  is  not  long  that  to  my  heaven 
leads. 

Measure  what  space  a  violet  stands  above  the 
ground  , 

'Tis  no  further  climbing  that  my  soul  and  angels 
have  to  do  than  that.'  " 

It  was  this  quality,  high  and  consecrate,  as  of  a 
palmer  with  his  vow,  this  knightly  valiance,  this  con 
stant  San  Greal  quest  after  the  lofty  in  character  and 
aim,  this  passion  for  Good  and  Love,  which  fellows 


Xl  MEMORIAL. 

him  rather  with  Milton  and  Ruskin  than  with  the 
less  sturdily  built  poets  of  his  day,  and  which  puts 
him  in  sharpest  contrast  with  the  school  led  by  Swin 
burne — with  Rossetti  and  Morris  as  his  followers 
hard  after  him — a  school  whose  reed  has  a  short 
gamut,  and  plays  but  two  notes,  Mors  and  Eros,  hope 
less  death  and  lawless  love.  But  poetry  is  larger  and 
finer  than  they  know.  Its  face  is  toward  the  world's 
future  ;  it  does  not  maunder  after  the  flower-decked 
nymphs  and  yellow-skirted  fays  that  have  forever  fled 
— and  good  riddance — their  haunted  springs  and 
tangled  thickets.  It  can  feed  on  its  growing  sweet  and 
fresh  faiths,  but  will  draw  foul  contagion  from  the 
rank  mists  that  float  over  old  and  cold  fables.  For 
all  knowledge  is  food,  as  faith  is  wine,  to  a  genius 
like  Lanier.  A  poet  genius  has  great  common  sense. 
He  lives  in  to-day  and  to-morrow,  not  in  yesterday. 
Such  men  were  Shakspere  and  Goethe.  The  age 
of  poetry  is  not  past ;  there  is  nothing  in  culture 
or  science  hostile  to  it.  Milton  was  one  of  the  world's 
great  poets,  but  he  was  the  most  cultured  and  schol 
arly  and  statesmanlike  man  of  his  day.  He  was  no 
dreamer  of  dead  dreams.  Neither  was  Lanier  a 
dreamer.  He  came  late  to  the  opportunity  he  longed 
for,  but  when  he  came  to  it  he  was  a  tremendous 
student,  not  of  music  alone,  but  of  language,  of 
philosophy,  and  of  science.  He  loved  science.  He 
was  an  inventor.  He  had  all  the  instincts  and  am 
bitions  of  this  nineteenth  century.  But  that  only 
made  his  range  of  poetic  thought  wider  as  his  out 
look  became  larger.  The  world  is  opening  to  the 
poet  with  every  question  the  crucible  asks  of  the 
elements,  with  every  spectrum  the  prism  steals  from 
a  star.  The  old  he  has  and  all  the  new. 


MEMORIAL.  xll 

All  this  a  man  of  Lanier's  breadth  understood  fully, 
for  he  had  a  large  capacity  and  he  sought  a  full  equip 
ment.  Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  feature  of  Jhlg_ 
gifts  was  their  complete  symmetry.  It  is  hard  to  tell 
what  register  of  perception,  or  sensibility,  or  wit,  or 
will  was  lacking.  The  constructive  and  the  critical 
faculties,  the  imaginative  and  the  practical,  bal 
anced  each  other.  His  wit  and  humor  played  upon 
the  soberer  background  of  his  more  recognized  quali 
ties.  The  artist's  withdrawn  vision  was  at  any  need 
promptly  exchanged  for  the  exercise  of  that  scrupu 
lous  exactitude  called  for  in  the  routine  of  the  law- 
office  or  the  post-office  clerkship  or  other  business 
relations,  or  for  the  play  of  those  energies  exerted  in 
camp  or  field.  There,  so  his  comrades  testify,  the 
most  wearing  drudgeries  of  a  soldier's  life  were  always 
undertaken  with  notable  alacrity  and  were  thoroughly 
discharged,  when  he  would  as  invariably  return,  the 
task  being  done,  to  the  gentle  region  of  his  own 
high  thoughts  and  the  artist's  realm  of  beauty. 

But  how  short  was  his  day,  and  how  slender  his 
opportunity  !  From  the  time  he  was  of  age  he  waged 
a  constant,  courageous,  hopeless  fight  against  adverse 
circumstance  for  room  to  live  and  write.  Much  very 
dear,  and  sweet,  and  most  sympathetic  helpfulness  he 
met  in  the  city  of  his  adoption,  and  from  friends  else 
where,  but  he  could  not  command  the  time  and  leisure 
which  might  have  lengthened  his  life  and  given  him 
opportunity  to  write  the  music  and  the  verse  with 
which  his  soul  was  teeming.  Yet  short. as  was  his 
literary  life,  and  hindered  though  it  were,  its  fruit 
will  fill  a  large  space  in  the  garnering  of  the  poetic 
art  of  our  country. 

WILLIAM   HAYES  WARD. 


Mr.  Lanier's  published  works,  previous  to  the  pres 
ent  volume,  and  exclusive  of  poems  and  essays  pub 
lished  in  literary  journals,  are  the  following  : 

TIGER  LILIES  :  A  novel.  16  mo,  pp.  v,  252.  Kurd  &  Houghton, 
New  York,  1867. 

FLORIDA  :  Its  Scenery,  Climate  and  History.  12  mo,  pp.  336.  J. 
B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia,  1876. 

POEMS.     Pp.  94.     J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia,  1877. 

THE  BOY'S  FROISSART.  Being  Sir  John  Froissart's  Chronicles  of 
Adventure,  Battle,  and  Custom  in  England,  France,  Spain,  etc. 
Edited  for  Boys.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  xxviii  422.  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons,  New  York,  1878. 

THE  SCIENCE  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  xv,  315. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1880. 

THE  BOY'S  KING  ARTHUR.  Being  Sir  Thomas  Malory's  History 
of  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round  Table.  Edited 
for  Boys.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  xlviii,  404.  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  New  York,  1880. 

THE  BOY'S  MABINOGION.  Being  the  Earliest  Welsh  Ta'es  of  King 
Arthur  in  the  famous  Red  Book  of  Hergest.  Edited  for  Boys. 
Crown  8vo,  pp.  xxiv,  378.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York, 
1881. 

THE  BOY'S  PERCY.  Being  Old  Ballads  of  War,  Adventure,  and 
Love,  from  Bishop  Thomas  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Eng 
lish  Poetry.  Edited  for  Boys.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  xxxii,  442. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York,  1882. 

THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL  AND  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  ITS  DEVELOP 
MENT.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  293.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New 
York,  1883. 


POEMS  OF  SIDNEY  LANIER 


SUNRISE,  the  culminating  poem,  the  high 
est  -vision  of  Sidney  Lanier,  was  dedicated 
through  his  latest  request  to  that  friend 
who  indeed  came  into  his  life  only  near  its 
close,  yet  was  at  first  meeting  recognised 
by  the  poet  as  "  the  father  of  his  spirit," 
GEORGE  WESTFELDT.  When  words  were 
very  few  and  the  poem  was  unread,  even  by 
any  friend,  the  earnest  bidding  came : 
"Send  him  my  SUNRISE,  that  he  may  know 
bow  entire^  we  are  one  in  thought." 


HYMNS  OF  THE  MARSHES. 

I. 

SUNRISE. 

IN  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 

Of  the  live-oak,  the  marsh,  and  the  main. 
The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me  alone  in  my  sleep  ; 
Up-breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message  of  range  and  of 

sweep, 

Interwoven  with  waftures  of  wild  sea-liberties,  drifting, 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting,  sifting, 

Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 

Then  my  thoughts,  in  the  dark  of  the  dungeon-keep 
Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City  of  Sleep, 
Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assembling  : 

The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a-trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter  yes, 

Shaken  with  happiness  : 
The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved  !  I  might  not  abide  :  (. 
I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  O  beloved,  my  live-oaks,  to  hide 

In  your  gospelling  glooms, — to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh  and  the  sea  my  sea. 

Tell  me,  sweet  burly-bark'd,  man-bodied  Tree 

That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing,  dost  know 

From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy  feet  which  flow  ? 


4  HYMNS   OF   THE   MARSHES. 

They  rise  not  from  reason,  but  deeper  inconsequent  deeps. 

Reason 's  not  one  that  weeps. 
What  logic  of  greeting  lies 
\Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the  rain  of  the  eyes  ? 

O  cunning  green  leaves,  little  masters  !  like  as  ye  gloss 
All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  luminous  darks  that  env 

boss 
The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern  and  plan, 

So, 

(But  would  I  could  know,  but  would  I  could  know,) 
With  your  question  embroid'ring  the  dark  of  the  question  of 

man, — 

So,  with  your  silences  purfling  this  silence  of  man 
While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  knowledge  is  under  the 
ban, 

Under  the  ban, — 
So,  ye  have  wrought  me 

Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge, — yea,  ye  have  taught 
me, 

So, 
That  haply  we  know  somewhat  more  than  we  know. 

Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences  murmuring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me, — 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring, — repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now  brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  death, — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence, — preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience, — sift  me, — impeach  me, — 


SUNRISE. 

And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air. 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 

My  gossip,  the  owl, — is  it  thou 
That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hanging  bough, 
As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred  ? 
Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird  ? 


Reverend  Marsh,  low-couched  along  the  sea, 

Old  chemist,  rapt  in  alchemy, 

Distilling  silence, — lo, 
That  which  our  father-age  had  died  to  know — 

The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter — thou 
Hast  found  it :  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The  globed  clarity  of  receiving  space, 
This  solves  us  all :  man,  matter,  doubt,  disgrace, 
Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 
Must  in  yon  silence'  clear  solution  lie. 
Too  clear  !     That  crystal  nothing  who  '11  peruse  ? 
The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter  news. 
Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt 
Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 
Oh,  if  thy  soul 's  at  latter  gasp  for  space, 
With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy  race  j 

Just  to  be  fellow'd,  when  that  thou  hast  found 
No  man  with  room,  or  grace  enough  of  bound 
To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou  art, — 
'Tis  here,  'tis  here  thou  canst  unhand  thy  heart 
And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 
By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 

The  tide's  at  full:  the  marsh  with  flooded  streams'. 
Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 


HYMNS   OF   THE   MARSHES. 


Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement  lies 
'  A  rhapsody  of  morning-stars.     The  skies 
Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy, — 
The  marsh  brags  ten  :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie. 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made  ! 

Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 

To  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty   and   silence   a- 

spring,— 
To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the  hold  of  silence  the 

string ! 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam 
Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'er-blown  in  a  dream, — 
Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of  night, 
Over-weighted  with  stars,  over-freighted  with  light, 
Over-sated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 

But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 
Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 

But  no  :  it  is  made:  list !  somewhere, — mystery,  where  ? 

In  the  leaves  ?  in  the  air  ? 
In  my  heart  ?  is  a  motion  made  : 

'Tis  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of  shade  on  shade. 
In  the  leaves  'tis  palpable  :  low  multitudinous  stirring 
Upwinds  through  the  woods  ;  the  little  ones,  softly  conferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord  's  to  be  looked  for  ;  so  ;  they  are  still ; 
I  But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth  are  a-thrill, — 
1    And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round  the  bend  of  thf 

river, — 

And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 
Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and  shades, — 
\nd  invisible  wings,  fast  fleeting,  fast  fleeting, 
Are  beating 


SUNRISE.  7 

The   dark   overhead  as  my  heart  beats, — and  steady  and 

free 
Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea — 

(Run  home,  little  streams, 

With  your  lapfulls  of  stars  and  dreams), — • 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 

How  merrily  flutters  the  sail, — 
And  lo,  in  the  East !     Will  the  East  unveil  ? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed 
A  flush  :  'tis  dead  ;  'tis  alive  :.  'tis  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it  :  nay,  'tis  abiding,  'tis  unwithdrawn  : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven !     'Tis  Dawn. 

N 

Now  a  dream  of  a  flame  through  that  dream  of  a  flush  is  up 
rolled : 

To  the  zenith  ascending,  a  dome  of  undazzling  gold 
Is  builded,  in  shape  as  a  bee-hive,  from  out  of  the  sea  : 
The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh,  the  Bee, 

The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 

Of  dazzling  gold  is  the  great  Sun-Bee 
That  shall  flash  from  the  hive -hole  over  the  sea. 


Yet  now  the  dew-drop,  now  the  morning  gray, 
Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day 

Ere  with  the  sun  their  souls  exhale  away. 

•*j^  «t        <£SJ*i»-'i  6 
Now  in  each  pettiest  personal  sphere  of  dew 

The  summ'd  morn  shines  complete  as  in  the  blue    ^v  i 

Big  dew-drop  of  all  heaven  :  with  these  lit  shrines^ 

O'er-silvered  to  the  farthest  sea-confines, 

The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 

Of  worship  lies.     Peace  to  the  ante-reign  xJLs^U^J?^^ 

Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild, 

Minded  of  nought  but  peace,  and  of  a  child.    J 


8  HYMNS   OF  THE   MARSHES. 

Not  slower  than  Majesty  moves,  for  a  mean  and  a  measure 
Of  motion, — not  faster  than  dateless  Olympian  leisure 
Might  pace  with  unblown  ample  garments  from  pleasure  to 

pleasure, — 
*  The  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  unjarring,  unreeling, 

Forever  revealing,  revealing,  revealing, 
Edgewise,  bladewise,  halfwise,  wholewise, — 'tis  done  ! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun  ! 
With  several  voice,  with  ascription  one, 
The  woods  and  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and  my  soul 
Unto  thee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of  all  morrows  doth 

roll, 

Cry  good  and  past-good  and  most  heavenly  morrow,  lor'1 
Sun. 

C  Artisan  born  in  the  purple, — Workman  Heat, — 
arter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to  meet! 
And  be  mixed  in  the  death-cold  oneness, — irtfierrnost  Guest 
At  the  marriage  of  elements, — fellow  of  publicans, — blest 
King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest  o'er 
The  idle  skies  yet  laborest  fast  evermore, — 
Thou,  in  the  fine  forge -thunder,  thou,  in  the  beat 
Of  the  heart  of  a  man,  thou  Motive, — Laborer  Heat : 
Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea 's  all  news, 
With  his  inshore  greens  and  manifold  mid-sea  blues, 
Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest  perfectest  hues 
Ever  shaming  the  maidens, — lily  and  rose 
Confess  thee,  and  each  mild  flame  that  glows 
In  the  clarified  virginal  bosoms  of  stones  that  shine, 
It  is  thine,  it  is  thine  : 

Thou  chemist  of  storms,  whether  driving  the  winds  a-swirl 
Or  a-flicker  the  subtiler  essences  polar  that  whirl 
In  the  magnet  earth, — yea,  thou  with  a  storm  for  a  heart, 
Rent  with  debate,  many-spotted  with  question,  part 


SUNRISE.  9 

From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed  light, 

Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and  bright 

Than  the  eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of: — manifold  One, 

I  must  pass  from  thy  face,  I  must  pass  from  the  face  of  the 

Sun  : 

Old  Want  is  awake  and  agog,  every  wrinkle  a-frown  ; 
The  worker  must  pass  to  his  work  in  the  terrible  town  : 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I  fear  not  the  thing  to  be  done ; 

I  am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my  lord  the  Sun : 
How  dark,  how  dark  soever  the  race  that  must  needs  be  run, 
I  am  lit  with  the  Sun. 


Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 
Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  factories 

Hide  thee, 
Never  the  reek  of  the  time 's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 
And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with  knowledge 

abide  thee, 

And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath  tried  thee, 
Labor,  at  leisure,  in  art, — till  yonder  beside  thee 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 
The  day  being  done. 

BALTIMORE,  December,  1880. 


10  HYMNS    OF   THE   MARSHES. 


II. 


INDIVIDUALITY. 

SAIL  on,  sail  on,  fair  cousin  Cloud  : 
Oh  loiter  hither  from  the  sea. 

Still-eyed  and  shadow-brow'd, 
Steal  off  from  yon  far-drifting  crowd, 
And  come  and  brood  upon  the  marsh  with  me. 

Yon  laboring  low  horizon-smoke, 
Yon  stringent  sail,  toil  not  for  thee 

Nor  me  ;  did  heaven's  stroke 
The  whole  deep  with  drown'd  commerce  choke. 
No  pitiless  tease  of  risk  or  bottomry 

Would  to  thy  rainy  office  close 

Thy  will,  or  lock  mine  eyes  from  tears, 

Part  wept  for  traders' -woes, 
Part  for  that  ventures  mean  as  those 
In  issue  bind  such  sovereign  hopes  and  fears. 

— Lo,  Cloud,  thy  downward  countenance  stares 
Blank  on  the  blank-faced  marsh,  and  thou 

Mindest  of  dark  affairs  ; 
Thy  substance  seems  a  warp  of  cares  ; 
Like  late  wounds  run  the  wrinkles  on  thy  brow. 

Well  may'st  thou  pause,  and  gloom,  and  stare, 
A  visible  conscience  :  I  arraign 

Thee,  criminal  Cloud,  of  rare 
Contempts  on  Mercy,  Right,  and  Prayer, — 
Of  murders,  arsons,  thefts, — of  nameless  stain 


INDIVIDUALITY.  IS 

(Yet  though  life's  logic  grow  as  gray 
As  thou,  my  soul's  not  in  eclipse.) 

Cold  Cloud,  but  yesterday 
Thy  lightning  slew  a  child  at  play, 
And  then  a  priest  with  prayers  upon  his  lips 

Foi  his  enemies,  and  then  a  bright 
Lady  that  did  but  ope  the  door 

Upon  the  storming  night 
To  let  a  beggar  in, — strange  spite, — 
And  then  thy  sulky  rain  refused  to  pour 

Till  thy  quick  torch  a  barn  had  burned 
Where  twelve  months'  store  of  victual  lay, 

A  widow's  sons  had  earned  ; 
Which  done,  thy  floods  with  winds  returned, — 
The  river  raped  their  little  herd  away. 

What  myriad  righteous  errands  high 
Thy  flames  might  run  on  !     In  that  hour 

Thou  slewest  the  child,  oh  why 
Not  rather  slay  Calamity, 
Breeder  of  Pain  and  Doubt,  infernal  Power  ? 

Or  why  not  plunge  thy  blades  about 
Some  maggot  politician  throng 

Swarming  to  parcel  out 
The  body  of  a  land,  and  rout 
The  maw-conventicle,  and  ungorge  Wrong? 

What  the  cloud  doeth    \ 
The  Lord  knoivetht 
The  cloud  knoweth  not. 
What  the  artist  doeth, 
The  Lord  knoweth; 
Knoweth  the  artist  not  f 


12  HYMNS   OF   THE   MARSHES. 

Well-answered  ! — O  dear  artists,  ye 
— Whether  in  forms  of  curve  or  hue 

Or  tone  your  gospels  be — 
Say  wrong  This  work  is  not  of  me, 
But  God  :  it  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true. 

Awful  is  Art  because  'tis  free. 
The  artist  trembles  o'er  his  plan 

Where  men  his  Self  must  see. 
Who  made  a  song  or  picture,  he 
Did  it,  and  not  another,  God  nor  man. 

My  Lord  is  large,  my  Lord  is  strong : 
Giving,  He  gave  :  my  me  is  mine. 

How  poor,  how  strange,  how  wrong, 
To  dream  He  wrote  the  little  song 
I  made  to  Him  with  love's  unforced  design ! 


Oh,  not  as  clouds  dim  laws  have  plann'd 
To  strike  down  Good  and  fight  for  111, — 

Oh,  not  as  harps  that  stand 
In  the  wind  and  sound  the  wind's  command  : 
Each  artist — gift  of  terror  ! — owns  his  will. 

r 

For  thee,  Cloud, — if  thou  spend  thine  all 
Upon  the  South's  o'er-brimming  sea 

That  needs  thee  not ;  or  crawl 
To  the  dry  provinces,  and  fall 
Till  every  convert  clod  shall  give  to  thee 

Green  vorship  ;  if  thou  grow  or  fade, 
Bring  on  delight  or  misery, 

Fly  east  or  west,  be  made 

Snow,  hail,  rain,  wind,  grass,  rose,  light,  shade ; 
What  matters  it  to  thee  ?     There  is  no  thee. 


MARSH   SONG — AT   SUNSET. 

Pass,  kinsman  Cloud,  now  fair  and  mild  : 
Discharge  the  will  that 's  not  thine  own. 

I  work  in  freedom  wild, 
But  work,  as  plays  a  little  child, 
Sure  of  the  Father,  Self,  and  Love,  alone. 


BALTIMORE,  1878-9. 


III. 

MARSH  SONG— AT  SUNSET. 

OVER  the  monstrous  shambling  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea, 
Bright  Ariel-cloud,  thou  lingerest : 
Oh  wait,  oh  wait,  in  the  warm  red  West, — 

Thy  Prospero  I  '11  be. 

Over  the  humped  and  fishy  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea 

O  cloud  in  the  West,  like  a  thought  in  the  heart 
Of  pardon,  loose  thy  wing,  and  start, 

And  do  a  grace  for  me. 

Over  the  huge  and  huddling  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea, 
Bring  hither  my  brother  Antonio,  — Man, — 
My  injurer  :  night  breaks  the  ban  : 

Brother,  I  pardon  thee. 

BALTIMORE,  1879-80. 


14  HYMNS  OF  THE  MARSHES. 


THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN. 

GLOOMS  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs,  — 
Emerald  twilights,  —     ?. 
Virginal  shy  lights, 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green  colon 

nades    - 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades,  c'! 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn  ;  — 


Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon-day  fire, — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 

Chamber    from    chamber   parted   with   wavering   arras    of 

leaves, — 
Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul  that 

grieves, 

Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the  wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good  ; — 


O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the  vine, 
While  the  riotous  noon-day  sun  of  the  June-day  long  did 

shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in  mine  ; 


THE   MARSHES   OF   GLYNN.  1 5 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 

And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 

And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle  doth  seem 

Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 

Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul  of  the 

oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome  sound 

of  the  stroke 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low,  > 

And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know,     V/... 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass  within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the  marshes 

of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought  me  of 

yore 

When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but  bitter 
ness  sore, 

And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnamable  pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 


Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the  dawn, 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest-dark  : — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 
Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land  !) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 


l6  HYMNS   OF  THE   MARSHES. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shimmering 

band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to  the 

folds  of  the  land. 

Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward  the  beach- 
lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows  the 

firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand -beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  gray  looping  of 

light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the  woods 

stands  high  ? 
The  world  lies  east  :  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky ! 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad  in 

the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or  a 

shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 


Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea  ? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the  marshes 
of  Glynn. 


Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-withhold 
ing  and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to  the 
seat 


THE   MARSHES   OF   GLYNN.  I/ 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the  sun, 
Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath  mightily 

won 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 


As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 

Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God  :  — 

I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 

In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh  and 

the  skies  : 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God  : 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of  Glynn. 


And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh  :  lo,  out  of  his  plenty 

the  sea 

Pours  fast :  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood-tide  must  be  : 
Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 

Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the 

low-lying  lanes, 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun  ! 

The  creeks  overflow  :  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod ;  the  blades  of  the  marsh-grass 

stir  ; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr  ; 


1 8  HYMNS   OF  THE  MARSHES. 

Passeth,  and  all  is  still ;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run ; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 


How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height  : 
And  it  is  night. 


And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of  sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 

But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 

The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when  the 

tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes  of 

Glynn. 

BALTIMORE,  1878. 


CLOVER.  Ip 

CLOVER. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 

DEAR  uplands,  Chester's  favorable  fields, 
My  large  unjealous  Loves,  many  yet  one — 
A  grave  good-morrow  to  your  Graces,  all, 
Fair  tilth  and  fruitful  seasons  ! 

Lo,  how  still ! 

The  midmorn  empties  you  of  men,  save  me  ; 
Speak  to  your  lover,  meadows !     None  can  hear. 
I  lie  as  lies  yon  placid  Brandywine, 
Holding  the  hills  and  heavens  in  my  heart 
For  contemplation. 

'Tis  a  perfect  hour. 

From  founts  of  dawn  the  fluent  autumn  day 
Has  rippled  as  a  brook  right  pleasantly 
Half-way  to  noon  ;  but  now  with  widening  turn 
Makes  pause,  in  lucent  meditation  locked, 
And  rounds  into  a  silver  pool  of  morn, 
Bbttom'd  with  clover-fields.     My  heart  just  hears 
Eight  lingering  strokes  of  some  far  village-bell, 
That  speak  the  hour  so  inward-voiced,  meseems 
Time's  conscience  has  but  whispered  him  eight  hints 
Of  revolution.     Reigns  that  mild  surcease 
That  stills  the  middle  of  each  rural  morn — 
When  nimble  noises  that  with  sunrise  ran 
About  the  farms  have  sunk  again  to  rest ; 
When  Tom  no  more  across  the  horse-lot  calls 
To  sleepy  Dick,  nor  Dick  husk-voiced  upbraids 
The  sway-back'd  roan  for  stamping  on  his  foot 
With  sulphurous  oath  and  kick  in  flank,  what  time 
The  cart-chain  clinks  across  the  slanting  shaft, 


n 

t? 

\*F; 


20  CLOVER. 

And,  kitchenward,  the  rattling  bucket  plumps 

Souse  down  the  well,  where  quivering  ducks  quack  loud 

And  Susan  Cook  is  singing. 

Up  the  sky 

he  hesitating  moon  slow  trembles  on, 
Faint  as  a  new-washed  &oul  but  lately  up 
From  out  a  buried  body/fFar  about, 
A  hundred  slopes  irfTuJtftired  fantasies 
Most  ravishingly  run,  so  smooth  of  curve 
That  I  but  seem  to  see  the  fluent  plain 
Rise  toward  a  rain  of  clover-blooms,  as  lakes 
Pout  gentle  mounds  of  plashment  up  to  meet 
Big  shower-drops.     Now  the  little  winds,  as  bees, 
Bowing  the  blooms  come  wandering  where  I  lie 
Mixt  soul  and  body  with  the  clover-tufts, 
Light  on  my  spirit,  give  from  wing  and  thigh 
Rich  pollens  and  divine  sweet  irritants 
To  every  nerve,  and  freshly  make  report 
Of  inmost  Nature's  secret  autumn-thought 
Unto  some  soul  of  sense  within  my  frame 
That  owns  each  cognizance  of  the  outlying  five, 
And  sees,  hears,  tastes,  smells,  touches,  all  in  one. 

Tell  me,  dear  Clover  (since  my  soul  is  thine, 

Since  I  am  fain  give  study  all  the  day, 

To  make  thy  ways  my  ways,  thy  service  mine, 

To  seek  me  out  thy  God,  my  God  to  be, 

And  die  from  out  myself  to  live  in  thee) — 

Now,  Cousin  Clover,  tell  me  in  mine  ear  : 

Go'st  thou  to  market  with  thy  pink  and  green  ? 

Of  what  avail,  this  color  and  this  grace  ? 

Wert  thou  but  squat  of  stem  and  brindle-brown, 

Still  careless  herds  would  feed.     A  poet,  thou  : 

What  worth,  what  worth,  the  whole  of  all  thine  art  ? 

Three-Leaves,  instruct  me  !     I  am  sick  of  price. 


CLOVER.  21 

Framed  in  the  arching  of  two  clover-stems 

Where-through  I  gaze  from  off  my  hill,  afar, 

The  spacious  fields  from  me  to  Heaven  take  on 

Tremors  of  change  and  new  significance 

To  th'  eyef  as  to  the  ear  a  simple  tale 

Begins  TO  Hint  a  parable's  sense  beneath. 

The  prospect  widens,  cuts  all  bounds  of  blue 

Where  horizontal  limits  bend,  and  spreads 

Into  a  curious-hill'd  and  curious-valley'd  Vast, 

Endless  before,  behind,  around  ;  which  seems 

Th'  incalculable  Up-and-Down  of  Time 

Made  plain  before  mine  eyes.     The  clover-stems 

Still  cover  all  the  space  ;  but  now  they  bear, 

For  clover-blooms,  fair,  stately  heads  of  men 

With  poets'  faces  heartsome,  dear  and  pale — 

Sweet  visages  of  all  the  souls  of  time 

Whose  loving  service  to  the  world  has  been 

In  the  artist's  way  expressed  and  bodied.     Oh, 

In  arms'  reach,  here  be  Dante,  Keats,  Chopin, 

Raphael,  Lucretius,  Omar,  Angelo, 

Beethoven,  Chaucer,  Schubert,  Shakespeare,  Bach, 

And  Buddha  (sweetest  masters  !     Let  me  lay 

These  arms  this  once,  this  humble  once,  about 

Your  reverend  necks — the  most  containing  clasp, 

For  all  in  all,  this  world  e'er  saw !)  and  there, 

Yet  further  on,  bright  throngs  unnamable 

Of  workers  worshipful,  nobilities 

In  the  Court  of  Gentle  Service,  silent  men, 

Dwellers  in  woods,  brooders  on  helpful  art, 

And  all  the  press  of  them,  the  fair,  the  large, 

That  wrought  with  beauty. 

Lo,  what  bulk  is  here  ? 

Now  comes  the  Course -of-things,  shaped  like  an  Ox, 
Slow  browsing,  o'er  my  hillside,  ponderously — 
The  huge-brawned,  tame,  and  workful  Course-of- things, 


22  CLOVER. 

That  hath  his  grass,  if  earth  be  round  or  flat, 

And  hath  his  grass,  if  empires  plunge  in  pain 

Or  faiths  flash  out.     This  cool,  unasking  Ox 

Comes  browsing  o'er  my  hills  and  vales  of  Time, 

And  thrusts  me  out  his  tongue,  and  curls  it,  sharp, 

And  sicklewise,  about  my  poets'  heads, 

And  twists  them  in,  all — Dante,  Keats,  Chopin, 

Raphael,  Lucretius,  Omar,  Angelo, 

Beethoven,  Chaucer,  Schubert,  Shakespeare,  Bach, 

And  Buddha,  in  one  sheaf— and  champs  and  chews, 

With  slantly-churning  jaws,  and  swallows  down  ; 

Then  slowly  plants  a  mighty  forefoot  out, 

And  makes  advance  to  futureward,  one  inch. 

So  :  they  have  played  their  part. 

And  to  this  end  ? 

^This,  God  ?     This,  troublous-breeding  Earth  ?     This,  Sun 
Of  hot,  quick  pains  ?     To  this  no-end  that  ends, 
These  Masters  wrought,  and  wept,  and  sweated  blood, 
And  burned,  and  loved,  and  ached  with  public  shame, 
And  found  no  friends  to  breathe  their  loves  to,  save 
Woods  and  wet  pillows  ?  t  This  was  all  ?     This  Ox  ? 
"  Nay,"  quoth  a  sum  of  voices  in  mine  ear, 
"  God's  clover,  we,  and  feed  His  Course-of-things ; 
The  pasture  is  God's  pasture  ;  systems  strange 
Of  food  and  fiberment  He  hath,  whereby 
The  general  brawn  is  built  for  plans  of  His 
To  quality  precise.     Kinsman,  learn  this  : 
-The  artist's  market  is  the  heart  of  man ; 
The  artist's  price,  some  little  good  of  man. 
Tease  not  thy  vision  with  vain  search  for  ends. 
The  End  of  Means  is  art  that  works  by  love. 

The  End  of  Ends    ...    in  God's  Beginning 's  lost." 

^ 

WEST  CHESTER,  PA.,  Summer  of  1876. 


THE  WAVING  OF  THE  CORN.        23 


THE  WAVING  OF  THE  CORN. 

PLOUGHMAN,  whose  gnarly  hand  yet  kindly  wheeled 
Thy  plough  to  ring  this  solitary  tree 

With  clover,  whose  round  plat,  reserved  a-field. 

,  /•>  Vi 

In  cool  green  radius  twice  my  length  may  be — 

Scanting  the  corn  thy  furrows  else  might  yield, 
To  pleasure  August,  bees,  fair  thoughts,  and  me, 
That  here  come  oft  together — daily  I, 
Stretched  prone  in  summer's  mortal  ecstasy, 
Do  stir  with  thanks  to  thee,  as  stirs  this  morn 
With  waving  of  the  corn. 

Unseen,  the  farmer's  boy  from  round  the  hill 
Whistles  a  snatch  that  seeks  his  soul  unsought, 
And  fills  some  time  with  tune,  howbeit  shrill; 
The  cricket  tells  straight  on  his  simple  thought — 

Nay,  'tis  the  cricket's  way  of  being  still ; 
The  peddler  bee  drones  in,  and  gossips  naught ; 
Far  down  the  wood,  a  one-desiring  dove 
Times  me  the  beating  of  the  heart  of  love  : 
And  these  be  all  the  sounds  that  mix,  each  morn, 
With  waving  of  the  corn. 

From  here  to  where  the  louder  passions  dwell, 
Green  leagues  of  hilly  separation  roll  : 

Trade  ends  where  yon  far  clover  ridges  swell. 
Ye  terrible  Towns,  ne'er  claim  the  trembling  soul 

That,  craftless  all  to  buy  or  hoard  or  sell, 
From  out  your  deadly  complex  quarrel  stole 
To  company  with  large  amiable  trees, 
Suck  honey  summer  with  unjealous  bees, 
And  take  Time's  strokes  as  softly  as  this  morn 

Takes  waving  of  the  corn. 
WEST  CHESTER.  PA.  ,  1876. 


24  SONG  OF   THE   CHATTAHOOCHEE. 


SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE, 

OUT  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

/  '          •       <* 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

f   u  t/      S        IS         /  ^  ' 

I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  willful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide/ 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham,       ' 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

4^ 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 


SONG   OF   THE   CHATTAHOOCHEE. 

Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook-stone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
— Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail  :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


1877 


26  FROM   THE   FLATS. 


FROM  THE  FLATS. 

WHAT  heartache — ne'er  a  hill ! 
Inexorable,  vapid,  vague  and  chill 
The  drear  sand-levels  drain  my  spirit  low. 
With  one  poor  word  they  tell  me  all  they  know ; 
Whereat  their  stupid  tongues,  to  tease  my  pain, 
Do  drawl  it  o'er  again  and  o'er  again. 
They  hurt  my  heart  with  griefs  I  cannot  name : 

Always  the  same,  the  same. 


Nature  hath  no  surprise, 
No  ambuscade  of  beauty  'gainst  mine  eyes 
From  brake  or  lurking  dell  or  deep  defile  ; 
No  humors,  frolic  forms — this  mile,  that  mile  ; 
No  rich  reserves  or  happy-valley  hopes 
Beyond  the  bend  of  roads,  the  distant  slopes. 
Her  fancy  fails,  her  wild  is  all  run  tame  : 

Ever  the  same,  the  same. 


Oh  might  I  through  these  tears 
But  glimpse  some  hill  my  Georgia  high  uprears, 
Where  white  the  quartz  and  pink  the  pebble  shine, 
The  hickory  heavenward  strives,  the  muscadine 
Swings  o'er  the  slope,  the  oak's  far-falling  shade 
Darkens  the  dogwood  in  the  bottom  glade, 
And  down  the  hollow  from  a  ferny  nook 
V     Bright  leaps  a  living  brook ! 

TAMPA,  FLORIDA,  1877. 


THE   MOCKING  BIRD.  2J 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

SUPERB  and  sole,  upon  a  plumed  spray 

That  o'er  the  general  leafage  boldly  grew, 

He  summ'd  the  woods  in  song  ;  or  typic  drew 

The  watch  of  hungry  hawks,  the  lone  dismay 

Of  languid  doves  when  long  their  lovers  stray, 

And  all  birds'  passion-plays  that  sprinkle  dew 

At  morn  in  brake  or  bosky  avenue. 

Whate'er  birds  did  or  dreamed,  this  bird  could  say, 

Then  down  he  shot,  bounced  airily  along 

The  sward,  twitched  in  a  grasshopper,  made  song 

Midflight,  perched,  prinked,  and  to  his  art  again. 

Sweet  Science,  this  large  riddle  read  me  plain  : 

How  may  the  death  of  that  dull  insect  be 

The  life  of  yon  trim  Shakspere  on  the  tree  ? 


TAMPA  ROBINS. 


TAMPA  ROBINS. 

THE  robin  laughed  in  the  orange-tree  : 
"  Ho,  windy  North,  a  fig  for  thee  : 
While  breasts  are  red  and  wings  are  bold 
And  green  trees  wave  us  globes  of  gold, 
Time's  scythe  shall  reap  but  bliss  for  me 
— Sunlight,  song,  and  the  orange-tree. 

Burn,  golden  globes  in  leafy  sky, 
My  orange-planets  :  crimson  I 
Will  shine  and  shoot  among  the  spheres 
(Blithe  meteor  that  no  mortal  fears) 
And  thrid  the  heavenly  orange-tree 
With  orbits  bright  of  minstrelsy. 

If  that  I  hate  wild  winter's  spite — 
The  gibbet  trees,  the  world  in  white, 
The  sky  but  gray  wind  over  a  grave — 
Why  should  I  ache,  the  season's  slave  ? 

I'll  sing  from  the  top  of  the  orange-tree 

Gramercy,  winter's  tyranny. 

I  '11  south  with  the  sun,  and  keep  my  clime ; 

My  wing  is  king  of  the  summer-time  ; 

My  breast  to  the  sun  his  torch  shall  hold  ; 

And  I  '11  call  down  through  the  green  and  gold 
Time,  take  thy  scythe,  reap  bliss  for  me, 
Bestir  thee  under  the  orange-tree." 

TAMPA,  FLORIDA,  1877. 


THE  CRYSTAL. 


THE  CRYSTAL. 

AT  midnight,  death's  and  truth's  unlocking  time, 

When  far  within  the  spirit's  hearing  rolls 

The  great  soft  rumble  of  the  course  of  things — 

A  bulk  of  silence  in  a  mask  of  sound, — 

When  darkness  clears  our  vision  that  by  day 

Is  sun-blind,  and  the  soul's  a  ravening  owl 

For  truth  and  flitteth  here  and  there  about 

Low-lying  woody  tracts  of  time  and  oft 

Is  minded  for  to  sit  upon  a  bough, 

Dry-dead  and  sharp,  of  some  long-stricken  tree 

And  muse  in  that  gaunt  place, — 'twas  then  my  heart, 

Deep  in  the  meditative  dark,  cried  out  : 

Ye  companies  of  governor-spirits  grave, 
Bards,  and  old  bringers-down  of  flaming  news 
From  steep-wall'd  heavens,  holy  malcontents, 
Sweet  seers,  and  stellar  visionaries,  all 
That  brood  about  the  skies  of  poesy, 
Full  bright  ye  shine,  insuperable  stars  ; 
Yet,  if  a  man  look  hard  upon  you,  none 
With  total  lustre  blazeth,  no,  not  one 
But  hath  some  heinous  freckle  of  the  flesh 
Upon  his  shining  cheek,  not  one  but  winks 
His  ray,  opaqued  with  intermittent  mist 
Of  defect ;  yea,  you  masters  all  must  ask 
Some  sweet  forgiveness,  which  we  leap  to  give, 
We  lovers  of  you,  heavenly-glad  to  meet 
Your  largesse  so  with  love,  and  interplight 
Your  geniuses  with  our  mortalities. 


30  THE   CRYSTAL. 

/    Thus  unto  thee,  O  sweetest  Shakspere  sole, 
A  hundred  hurts  a  day  I  do  forgive 
('Tis  little,  but,  enchantment !  'tis  for  thee)  : 
Small  curious  quibble  ;  Juliet's  prurient  pun 
In  the  poor,  pale  face  of  Romeo's  fancied  death  ; 
Cold  rant  of  Richard  ;  Henry's  fustian  roar 
Which  frights  away  that  sleep  he  invocates  ; 
Wronged  Valentine's  unnatural  haste  to  yield ; 
Too-silly  shifts  of  maids  that  mask  as  men 
In  faint  disguises  that  could  ne'er  disguise — 
Viola,  Julia,  Portia,  Rosalind  ; 
Fatigues  most  drear,  and  needless  overtax 
Of  speech  obscure  that  had  as  lief  be  plain  ; 
Last  I  forgive  (with  more  delight,  because 
'Tis  more  to  do)  the  labored-lewd  discourse 
That  e'en  thy  young  invention's  youngest  heir 
Besmirched  the  world  with. 

Father  Homer,  thee, 
Thee  also  I  forgive  thy  sandy  wastes 
Of  prose  and  catalogue,  thy  drear  harangues 
That  tease  the  patience  of  the  centuries, 
Thy  sleazy  scrap  of  story, — but  a  rogue's 
Rape  of  a  light-o'-love, — too  soiled  a  patch 
To  broider  with  the  gods. 

Thee,  Socrates, 

Thou  dear  and  very  strong  one,  I  forgive 
Thy  year-worn  cloak,  thine  iron  stringencies 
That  were  but  dandy  upside-down,  thy  words 
Of  truth  that,  mildlier  spoke,  had  mainlier  wrought 

Jo,  Buddha,  beautiful !  I  pardon  thee 
That  all  the  All  thou  hadst  for  needy  man 
Was  Nothing,  and  thy  Best  of  being  was 
But  not  to  be. 


THE   CRYSTAL.  31 

Worn  Dante,  I  forgive 

The  implacable  hates  that  in  thy  horrid  hells 
Or  burn  or  freeze  thy  fellows,  never  loosed 
By  death,  nor  time,  nor  love. 

And  I  forgive 

Thee,  Milton,  those  thy  comic-dreadful  wars 
Where,  armed  with  gross  and  inconclusive  steel, 
Immortals  smite  immortals  mortalwise 
And  fill  all  heaven  with  folly. 

Also  thee, 

Brave  ^schylus,  thee  I  forgive,  for  that 
Thine  eye,  by  bare  bright  justice  basilisked, 
Turned  not,  nor  ever  learned  to  look  where  Love 
Stands  shining. 

So,  unto  thee,  Lucretius  mine 
(For  oh,  what  heart  hath  loved  thee  like  to  this 
That's  now  complaining?),  freely  I  forgive 
Thy  logic  poor,  thine  error  rich,  thine  earth 

Whose  graves  eat  souls  and  all. 
V™ 

Yea,  all  you  hearts 

Of  beauty,  and  sweet  righteous  lovers  large  : 
Aurelius  fine,  oft  superfine  ;  mild  Saint 
A  Kempis,  overmild  ;  Epictetus, 
Whiles  low  in  thought,  still  with  old  slavery  tinct ; 
Rapt  Behmen,  rapt  too  far ;  high  Swedenborg, 
O'ertoppling  ;  Langley,  that  with  but  a  touch 
Of  art  hadst  sung  Piers  Plowman  to  the  top 
Of  English  songs,  whereof  'tis  dearest,  now, 
And  most  adorable  ;  Caedmon,  in  the  morn 
A-calling  angels  with  the  cow-herd's  call 
That  late  brought  up  the  cattle  ; '  Emerson, 


32  THE  CRYSTAL. 

Most  wise,  that  yet,  in  finding  Wisdom,  lost 

Thy  Self,  sometimes ;  tense  Keats,  with  angels'  nerves 

Where  men's  were  better ;  Tennyson,  largest  voice 

Since  Milton,  yet  some  register  of  wit 

Wanting  ; — all,  all,  I  pardon,  ere  'tis  asked, 

Your  more  or  less,  your  little  mole  that  marks 

You  brother  and  your  kinship  seals  to  man. 

But  Thee,  but  Thee,  O  sovereign  Seer  of  time, 

But  Thee,  O  poets'  Poet,  Wisdom's  Tongue, 

But  Thee,  O  man's  best  Man,  O  love's  best  Love, 

O  perfect  life  in  perfect  labor  writ, 

O  all  men's  Comrade,  Servant,  King,  or  Priest, — 

What  if  or  yet,  what  mole,  what  flaw,  what  lapse, 

What  least  defect  or  shadow  of  defect, 

What  rumor,  tattled  by  an  enemy, 

Of  inference  loose,  what  lack  of  grace 

Even  in  torture's  grasp,  or  sleep's,  or  death's,-— 

Oh,  what  amiss  may  I  forgive  in  Thee, 

Jesus,  good  Paragon,  thou  Crystal  Christ  ? " 

BALTIMORK,  1880. 


THE  REVENGE   OF  HAMISH,  33 


THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH. 

v    /To 

IT  was  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  in  the  bracken 

lay; 

And  all  of  a  sudden  the  sinister  smell  of  a  man, 
Awaft  on  a  wind-shift,  wavered  and  ran 
Down  the  hill-side  and  sifted  along  through  the  bracken  and 
passed  that  way. 

i         , 
Then  Nan  got  a-tremble  at  nostril ;  she  was  the  daintiest 

doe ; 

In  the  print  of  her  velvet  flank  on  the  velvet  fern 
She  reared,  and  rounded  her  ears  in  turn. 
Then  the  buck  leapt  up,  and  his  head  as  a  king's  to  a  crown 
did  go 


Full  high  in  the  breeze,  and  he  stood  as  if  Death  had  the 

form  of  a  deer  ; 

And  the  two  slim  does  long  lazily  stretching  arose, 
For  their  day-dream  slowlier  came  to  a  close, 
Till  they  woke  and  were  still,  breath-bound  with  waiting  and 
wonder  and  fear. 


Then  Alan  the  huntsman  sprang  over  the  hillock,  the  hounds 

shot  by,  L    c      i   u    ^ 

The  does  and  the  ten-tined  buck  made  a  marvellous  bound, 
The  hounds  swept  after  with  never  a  sound, 
But  Alan  loud  winded  his  horn  in  sign  that  the  quarry  was 
nigh. 

2*. 


34  THE   REVENGE   OF  HAMISH. 

For  at  dawn  of  that  day  proud  Maclean  of  Lochbuy  to  the 

hunt  had  waxed  wild, 
And  he  cursed  at  old  Alan  till   Alan  fared  off  with  the 

hounds 

For  to  drive  him  the  deer  to  the  lower  glen-grounds  : 
"  I  will  kill  a  red  deer,"  quoth  Maclean,  "  in  the  sight  of  the 
wife  and  the  child." 


So  gayly  he  paced  with  the  wife  and  the  child  to  his  chosen 

stand  ; 
But  he  hurried  tall  Hamish  the  henchman  ahead  :  "  Go 

turn,"— 

Cried  Maclean — "  if  the  deer  seek  to  cross  to  the  burn, 
Do  thou  turn  them  to  me  :  nor  fail,  lest  thy  back  be  red  as 
thy  hand." 

Now  hard-fortuned  Hamish,  half  blown  of  his  breath  with 

the  height  of  the  hill, 

Was  white  in  the  face  when  the  ten-tined  buck  and  the  does 
Drew  leaping  to  burn-ward  ;  huskily  rose 
His  shouts,  and  his  nether  lip  twitched,  and  his  legs  were 
o'er-weak  for  his  will. 

So  the  deer  darted  lightly  by  Hamish  and  bounded  away  to 

the  burn. 

But  Maclean  never  bating  his  watch  tarried  waiting  below 
Still  Hamish  hung  heavy  with  fear  for  to  go 
All  the  space  of  an  hour  ;  then  he  went,  and  his  face  was 
greenish  and  stern, 

And  his  eye  sat  back  in  the  socket,  and  shrunken  the  eye 
balls  shone, 
As  withdrawn  from  a  vision  of  deeds  it  were  shame  to  see. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH.         35 

"  Now,  now,  grim  henchman,  what  is 't  with  thee  ?  " 
Brake  Maclean,  and  his  wrath  rose  red  as  a  beacon  the  wind  ' 
hath  upblown. 


"  Three  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  made  out,"  spoke  Ham- 

ish,  full  mild, 
"  And  I  ran  for  to  turn,  but  my  breath  it  was  blown,  and 

they  passed ; 

I  was  weak,  for  ye  called  ere  I  broke  me  my  fast." 
Cried  Maclean  :  "  Now  a  ten-tined  buck  in  the  sight  of  the 
wife  and  the  child 


I  had  killed  if  the  gluttonous  kern  had  not  wrought  me  a 

snail's  own  wrong  !  " 
Then  he  sounded,  and  down  came  kinsmen  and  clansmen 

all: 

"  Ten  blows,  for  ten  tine,  on  his  back  let  fall, 
And  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow  not  at  the  bite  of 
thong!" 

So  Hamish  made  bare,  and  took  him  his  strokes ;  at  the  last 

he  smiled. 
"  Now  I'll  to  the  burn,"  quoth  Maclean,  "  for  it  still  may 

be, 

If  a  slimmer-paunched  henchman  will  hurry  with  me, 
I  shall  kill  me  the  ten-tined  buck  for  a  gift  to  the  wife  and 
the  child  1 " 


Then  the  clansmen  departed,  by  this  path  and  that ;  and 

over  the  hill 

Sped    Maclean   with    an    outward  wrath   for    an    inward 
shame ; 


36  THE  REVENGE  OF   HAMISH. 

And  that  place  of  the  lashing  full  quiet  became  ; 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  stood  sad ;  and  bloody-backed 
Hamish  sat  still. 


But  look !  red  Hamish  has  risen  •,  quick  about  and  about 

turns  he. 
"  There  is  none  betwixt  me    and    the    crag-top ! "    he 

screams  under  breath. 
Then,  livid  as  Lazarus  lately  from  death, 
He  snatches  the  child  from  the  mother,  and  clambers  the 
crag  toward  the  sea. 

Now  the  mother  drops  breath ;  she  is  dumb,  and  her  heart  • 

goes  dead  for  a  space, 
Till  the  motherhood,  mistress  of  death,  shrieks,  shrieks 

through  the  glen, 

And  that  place  of  the  lashing  is  live  with  men, 
And  Maclean,  and  the  gillie  that  told  him,  dash  up  in  a  des 
perate  race. 

/  i  / 

V       r 

\  .^~^  tJ       <-  U      \^  L .•        U'  (      LS 

Not  a  breath's  time  for  asking  ;  an  eye-glance  reveals  all  the 

tale  untold. 

They  follow  mad  Hamish  afar  up  the  crag  toward  the  sea, 
And  the  lady  cries  :  "  Clansmen,  run  for  a  fee  ! — 
Yon  castle  and  lands  to  the  two  first  hands  that  shall  hook 

him; and  hold 

Fast  Hamish  back  from  the  brink  !  " — and  ever  she  flies  up 

the  steep, 
And  the  clansmen  pant,  and  they  sweat,  and  they  jostle 

and  strain. 

But,  mother,  'tis  vain  ;  but,  father,  'tis  vain  ; 
Stern  Hamish  stands  bold  on  the  brink,   and   dangles  the 
child  o'er  the  deep. 


THE   REVENGE   OF   HAMISH.  37 

Now  a  faintness  falls  on  the  men  that  run,  and  they  all  stand 

still. 

And  the  wife  prays  Hamish  as  if  he  were  God,  on  her  knees, 
Crying  :  "  Hamish  !  O  Hamish  !  but  please,  but  please 
For  to  spare  him  !  "  and  Hamish  still  dangles  the  child,  with 
a  wavering  will. 

On  a  sudden  he  turns  ;  with  a  sea-hawk  scream,  and  a  gibe, 

and  a  song, 

Cries  :  "  So  ;  I  will  spare  ye  the  child  if,  in  sight  of  ye  all, 
Ten  blows  on  Maclean's  bare  back  shall  fall, 
And  ye  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow  not  at  the  bite  of 
the  thong ! " 

Then  Maclean  he  set  hardly  his  tooth  to  his  lip  that  his  tooth 

was  red, 
Breathed  short  for  a  space,  said  :  "  Nay,  but  it  never  shall 

be! 

Let  me  hurl  off  the  damnable  hound  in  the  sea !  " 
But  the  wife  :  "  Can  Hamish  go  fish  us  the  child  from  the 
sea,  if  dead  ? 

Say  yea ! — Let  them  lash  me,  Hamish? " — "  Nay !  " — "  Hus 
band,  the  lashing  will  heal ; 
But,  oh,  who  will  heal  me   the  bonny  sweet  bairn  in  his 

grave  ? 

Could  ye  cure  me  my  heart  with  the  death  of  a  knave  ? 
Quick  !  Love  !     I  will  bare  thee — so — kneel !  "     Then  Mac 
lean  'gan  slowly  to  kneel 

With  never  a  word,  till  presently  downward  he  jerked  to  the 

earth. 

Then  the  henchman — he  that  smote  Hamish — would  trem 
ble  and  lag ; 


38  THE   REVENGE   OF   HAMISH. 

"  Strike,  hard !  "  quoth  Hamish,  full  stern,  from  the  crag ; 
Then  he  struck  him,  and  "  One  !  "  sang  Hamish,  and  danced 
with  the  child  in  his  mirth. 


And  no  man  spake  beside  Hamish  ;  he  counted  each  stroke 

with  a  song. 
When    the  last  stroke  fell,  then  he  moved  him  a  pace 

down  the  height, 

And  he  held  forth  the  child  in  the  heartaching  sight 
Of  the  mother,  ^nd  looked  all  pitiful  grave ,  as  repenting  a 
wrong. 

And  there  as  the  motherly  arms  stretched  out  with  the  thanks 
giving  prayer — 

And  there  as  the  mother  crept  up  with  a  fearful  swift  pace, 
Till  her  finger  nigh  felt  of  the  bairnie's  face — 
In  a  flash  fierce  Hamish  turned  round  and  lifted  the  child  in 
the  air, 

W  /.        t        ..  V       t-  '  Vy  J 

A.nd  sprang  with  the  child  in  his  arms  from  the  horrible 

height  in  the  sea,, 
Shrill  screeching,    "  Revenge  1 "   in  the  wind-rush;    and 

pallid  Maclean^ 

Age-feeblfc  with  anger  and  impotent  pain, 
Crawled  up  on  the  crag,  and  lay  flat,  and  locked  hold  of  dead 
roots  of  a  tree — 

And  gazed  hungrily  o'er,  and  the  blood  from  his  back  drip- 
dripped  in  the  brine, 

And  a  sea-hawk  flung  down  a  skeleton  fish  as  he  flew, 
And  the  mother  stared  white  on  the  waste  of  blue, 
And  the  wind  drove  a  cloud  to  seaward,  and  the  sun  began 
to  shine. 

BALTIMORE,  1878. 


TO  BAYARD   TAYLOR.  39 


TO  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

To  range,  deep-wrapt,  along  a  heavenly  height, 
O'erseeing  all  that  man  but  undersees  ; 

To  loiter  down  lone  alleys  of  delight, 
And  hear  the  beating  of  the  hearts  of  trees, 

And  think  the  thoughts  that  lilies  speak  in  white 
By  greenwood  pools  and  pleasant  passages ; 


With  healthy  dreams  a-dream  in  flesh  and  soul, 

To  pace,  in  mighty  meditations  drawn, 
From  out  the  forest  to  the  open  knoll 

Where  much  thyme  is,  whence  blissful  leagues  of  law 
Betwixt  the  fringing  woods  to  southward  roll 

By  tender  inclinations ;  mad  with  dawn, 


Ablaze  with  fires  that  flame  in  silver  dew 

When  each  small  globe  doth  glass  the  morning-star, 
Long  ere  the  sun,  sweet-smitten  through  and  through 

With  dappled  revelations  read  afar, 
Suffused  with  saintly  ecstasies  of  blue 

As  all  the  holy  eastern  heavens  are, — 


To  fare  thus  fervid  to  what  daily  toil 
Employs  thy  spirit  in  that  larger  Land 

Where  thou  art  gone ;  to  strive,  but  not  to  moil 
In  nothings  that  do  mar  the  artist's  hand, 

Not  drudge  unriched,  as  grain  rots  back  to  soil, — 
No  profit  out  of  death, — going,  yet  still  at  stand,— 


4O  TO  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Giving  what  life  is  here  in  hand  to-day 

For  that  that 's  in  to-morrow's  bush,  perchance,— 
Of  this  year's  harvest  none  in  the  barn  to  lay, 

All  sowed  for  next  year's  crop, — a  dull  advance 
In  curves  that  come  but  by  another  way 

Back  to  the  start, — a  thriftless  thrift  of  ants 


Whose  winter  wastes  their  summer ;  O  my  Friend, 
Freely  to  range,  to  muse,  to  toil,  is  thine  : 

Thine,  now,  to  watch  with  Homer  sails  that  bend 
Unstained  by  Helen's  beauty  o'er  the  brine 

Tow'rds  some  clean  Troy  no  Hector  need  defend 
Nor  flame  devour ;  or,  in  some  mild  moon's  shine, 


Where  amiabler  winds  the  whistle  heed, 
To  sail  with  Shelley  o'er  a  bluer  sea, 

And  mark  Prometheus,  from  his  fetters  freed, 
Pass  with  Deucalion  over  Italy, 

While  bursts  the  flame  from  out  his  eager  reed 
Wild-stretching  towards  the  West  of  destiny ; 


Or,  prone  with  Plato,  Shakspere  and  a  throng 
Of  bards  beneath  some  plane-tree's  cool  eclipse 

To  gaze  on  glowing  meads  where,  lingering  long, 
Psyche's  large  Butterfly  her  honey  sips; 

Or,  mingling  free  in  choirs  of  German  song, 
To  learn  of  Goethe's  life  from  Goethe's  lips ; 


These,  these  are  thine,  and  we,  who  still  are  dead, 

Do  yearn — nay,  not  to  kill  thee  back  again 
Into  this  charnel  life,  this  lowlihead, 


TO  BAYARD  TAYLOR.  4! 

Not  to  the  dark  of  sense,  the  blinking  brain, 
The  hugged  delusion  drear,  the  hunger  fed 
On  husks  of  guess,  the  monarchy  of  pain, 


The  cross  of  love,  the  wrench  of  faith,  the  shame 
Of  science  that  cannot  prove  proof  is,  the  twist 

Of  blame  for  praise  and  bitter  praise  for  blame, 
The  silly  stake  and  tether  round  the  wrist 

By  fashion  fixed,  the  virtue  that  doth  claim 
The  gains  of  vice,  the  lofty  mark  that's  missed 


By  all  the  mortal  space  'twixt  heaven  and  hell, 
The  soul's  sad  growth  o'er  stationary  friends 

Who  hear  us  from  our  height  not  well,  not  well, 
The  slant  of  accident,  the  sudden  bends 

Of  purpose  tempered  strong,  the  gambler's  spell, 
The  son's  disgrace,  the  plan  that  e'er  depends 

\ 

On  others'  plots,  the  tricks  that  passion  plays 

(I  loving  you,  you  him,  he  none  at  all), 
The  artist's  pain — to  walk  his  blood-stained  ways, 

A  special  soul,  yet  judged  as  general — 
The  endless  grief  of  art,  the  sneer  that  slays, 

The  war,  the  wound,  the  groan,  the  funeral  pall- 


. 
Not  into  these,  bright  spirit,  do  we  yearn 

To  bring  thee  back,  but  oh,  to  be,  to  be 
Unbound  of  all  these  gyves,  to  stretch,  to  spurn 

The  dark  from  off  our  dolorous  lids,  to  see 
Our  spark,  Conjecture,  blaze  and  sunwise  burn,^ 

And  suddenly  to  stand  again  by  thee  ! 


TO   BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Ah,  not  for  us,  not  yet,  by  thee  to  stand  : 

For  us,  the  fret,  the  dark,  the  thorn,  the  chill  j 

For  us,  to  call  across  unto  thy  Land, 
"  Friend,  get  thee  to  the  ministrels'  holy  hill, 

And  kiss  those  brethren  for  us,  mouth  and  hand, 
And  make  our  duty  to  our  master  Will." 

BALTIMORE,  1879. 


A  DEDICATION.  43 


A  DEDICATION. 


TO  CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN. 

As  Love  will  carve  dear  names  upon  a  tree, 
Symbol  of  gravure  on  his  heart  to  be, 

So  thought  I  thine  with  loving  text  to  set 
In  the  growth  and  substance  of  my  canzonet ; 

But,  writing  it,  my  tears  begin  to  fall — 

This  wild-rose  stem  for  thy  large  name 's  too  small ! 

Nay,  still  my  trembling  hands  are  fain,  are  fain 
Cut  the  good  letters  though  they  lap  again  ; 

Perchance  such  folk  as  mark  the  blur  and  stain 
Will  say,  //  was  the  beating  of  the  rains 

Or,  haply  these  o'er-woundings  of  the  stem 
May  loose  some  little  balm,  to  plead  for  them. 


44  TO  CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN. 


TO  CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN. 

LOOK  where  a  three-point  star  shall  weave  his  beam 

Into  the  slumb'rous  tissue  of  some  stream, 

Till  his  bright  self  o'er  his  bright  copy  seem 

Fulfillment  dropping  on  a  come-true  dream ; 

So  in  this  night  of  art  thy  soul  doth  show 

Her  excellent  double  in  the  steadfast  flow 

Of  wishing  love  that  through  men's  hearts  doth  go  : 

At  once  thou  shin'st  above  and  shin'st  below. 

E  'en  when  thou  strivest  there  within  Art's  sky 

(Each  star  must  o'er  a  strenuous  orbit  fly), 

Full  calm  thine  image  in  our  love  doth  lie, 

A  Motion  glassed  in  a  Tranquillity. 

So  triple-rayed,  thou  mov'st,  yet  stay'st,  serene — 

Art's  artist,  Love's  dear  woman,  Fame's  good  queen! 

BALTJMORB,  1875. 


THE  STIRRUP-CUP.  45 


THE  STIRRUP-CUP. 

DEATH,  them  'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare  : 
Look  how  compounded,  with  what  caref 
Time  got  his  wrinkles  reaping  thee 
Sweet  herbs  from  all  antiquity. 


David  to  thy  distillage  went, 
Keats,  and  Gotama  excellent, 
Omar  Khayyam,  and  Chaucer  bright, 
And  Shakspere  for  a  king-delight. 


Then,  Time,  let  not  a  drop  be  spilt : 
Hand  me  the  cup  whene'er  thou  wilt ; 
'Tis  thy  rich  stirrup-cup  to  me ; 
I'll  drink  it  down  right  smilingly. 


TAMPA,  FLORIDA,  1877. 


40  A  SONG  OF   ETERNITY  IN  TIME. 


A  SONG  OF  ETERNITY  IN  TIME. 

ONCE,  at  night,  in  the  manor  wood 
My  Love  and  I  long  silent  stood, 
Amazed  that  any  heavens  could 

Decree  to  part  us,  bitterly  repining. 
My  Love,  in  aimless  love  and  grief, 
Reached  forth  and  drew  aside  a  leaf 
That  just  above  us  played  the  thief 

And  stole  our  starlight  that  for  us  was  shining. 


A  star  that  had  remarked  her  pain 
Shone  straightway  down  that  leafy  lane, 
And  wrought  his  image,  mirror-plain, 

Within  a  tear  that  on  her  lash  hung  gleaming. 
"  Thus  Time,"  I  cried,  "  is  but  a  tear 
Some  one  hath  wept  'twixt  hope  and  fear, 
Yet  in  his  little  lucent  sphere 

Our  star  of  stars,  Eternity,  is  beaming." 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1867.     Revised  in  1879. 


OWL  AGAINST  ROBIN.  47 


OWL  AGAINST  ROBIN. 

FROWNING,  the  owl  in  the  oak  complained  him 
Sore,  that  the  song  of  the  robin  restrained  him 
Wrongly  of  slumber,  rudely  of  rest. 

"  From  the  north,  from  the  east,  from  the  south  and  the  west^ 
Woodland,  wheat-field,  corn-field,  clover, 
Over  and  over  and  over  and  over, 
Five  o'clock,  ten  o'clock,  twelve,  or  seven, 
Nothing  but  robin-songs  heard  under  heaven  : 
How  can  we  sleep  ? 


Peep  f  you  whistle,  and  cheep  !  cheep  !  cheep  / 
Oh,  peep,  if  you  will,  and  buy,  if  'tis  cheap, 
And  have  done ;  for  an  owl  must  sleep. 
Are  ye  singing  for  fame,  and  who  shall  be  first? 
Each  day 's  the  same,  yet  the  last  is  worst, 
And  the  summer  is  cursed  with  the  silly  outburst 
Of  idiot  red-breasts  peeping  and  cheeping 
By  day,  when  all  honest  birds  ought  to  be  sleeping. 
Lord,  what  a  din  !     And  so  out  of  all  reason. 
Have  ye  not  heard  that  each  thing  hath  its  season  ? 
Night  is  to  work  in,  night  is  for  play-time  ; 
Good  heavens,  not  day-time ! 


A  vulgar  flaunt  is  the  flaring  day, 

The  impudent,  hot,  unsparing  day, 

That  leaves  not  a  stain  nor  a  secret  untold,— 

Day  the  reporter, — the  gossip  of  old, — 

Deformity's  tease, — man's  common  scold — 


48  OWL  AGAINST  ROBIN. 

i  /  /  / 

Poh  !    Shut  the  eyes,  let  the  sense  go  numb 
When  day  down  the  eastern  way  has  come. 
'Tis  clear  as  the  moon  (by  the  argument  drawn 
From  Design)  that  the  world  should  retire  at  dawn. 
Day  kills.    The  leaf  and  the  laborer  breathe 
Death  in  the  sun,  the  cities  seethe, 
The  mortal  black  marshes  bubble  with  heat 
And  puff  up  pestilence  ;  nothing  is  sweet 
Has  to  do  with  the  sun  :  even  virtue  will  taint 
(Philosophers  say)  and  manhood  grow  faint 
In  the  lands  where  the  villainous  sun  has  sway 
Through  the  livelong  drag  of  the  dreadful  day. 
What  Eden  but  noon-light  stares  it  tame, 
Shadowless,  brazen,  forsaken  of  shame  ? 
For  the  sun  tells  lies  on  the  landscape, — now 
Reports  me  the  what,  unrelieved  with  the  how,— 
As  messengers  lie,  with  the  facts  alone, 
Delivering  the  word  and  withholding  the  tone. 


But  oh,  the  sweetness,  and  oh,  the  light 
Of  the  high-fastidious  night ! 
Oh,  to  awake  with  the  wise  old  stars — 
The  cultured,  the  careful,  the  Chesterfield  stars, 
That  wink  at  the  work-a-day  fact  of  crime 
And  shine  so  rich  through  the  ruins  of  time 
That  Baalbec  is  finer  than  London  ;  oh, 
To  sit  on  the  bough  that  zigzags  low 
By  the  woodland  pool, 
And  loudly  laugh  at  man,  the  fool 
That  vows  to  the  vulgar  sun ;  oh,  rare, 
To  wheel  from  the  wood  to  the  window  where 
A  day-worn  sleeper  is  dreaming  of  care, 
And  perch  on  the  sill  and  straightly  stare 
Through  his  visions  ;  rare,  to  sail 
Aslant  with  the  hill  and  a-curve  with  the  vale,— 


OWL  AGAINST  ROBIN.  49 

To  flit  down  the  shadow-shot-with-gleam, 

Betwixt  hanging  leaves  and  starlit  stream, 

Hither,  thither,  to  and  fro, 

Silent,  aimless,  dayless,  slow 

(Aimless  f    Field-mice  f    True,  they're  slain, 

But  the  night-philosophy  hoots  at  pain, 

Grips,  eats  quick,  and  drops  the  bones 

In  the  water  beneath  the  bough,  nor  moans 

At  the  death  life  feeds  on).     Robin,  pray 

Come  away,  come  away 
To  the  cultus  of  night.     Abandon  the  day. 
Have  more  to  think  and  have  less  to  say. 
And  cannot  you  walk  now  ?     Bah  !  don't  hop  I 

Stop ! 

Look  at  the  owl,  scarce  seen,  scarce  heard, 
O  irritanx,  iterant,  maddening  bird  I " 

BALTIMORE,  1880. 


50  A  SONG  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

SAIL  fast,  sail  fast, 

Ark  of  my  hopes,  Ark  of  my  dreams ; 
Sweep  lordly  o'er  the  drowned  Past, 
Fly  glittering  through  the  sun's  strange  beams  f 

Sail  fast,  sail  fast. 

Breaths  of  new  buds  from  off  some  drying  Ita 
With  news  about  the  Future  scent  the  sea  : 
My  brain  is  beating  like  the  heart  of  Haste  • 
I'll  loose  me  a  bird  upon  this  Present  waste ; 

Go,  trembling  song, 
And  stay  not  long ;  oh,  stay  not  long  : 
Thou  'rt  only  a  gray  and  sober  dove. 
But  thine  eye  is  faith  and  thy  wing  is  love. 

BALTIMORE,  1876. 


OPPOSITION.  51 


OPPOSITION. 

OF  fret,  of  dark,  of  thorn,  of  chill, 

Complain  no  more  ;  for  these,  O  heart, 

Direct  the  random  of  the  will 

As  rhymes  direct  the  rage  of  art. 

The  lute's  fixt  fret,  that  runs  athwart 

The  strain  and  purpose  of  the  string, 

For  governance  and  nice  consort 
Doth  bar  his  wilful  wavering. 

The  dark  hath  many  denr  avails  ; 

The  dark  distils  divinest  dews; 
The  dark  is  rich  with  nightingales, 

With  dre.  ms,  an  I  with  the  heavenly  Muse. 

Bleeding  with  thorns  of  petty  strife, 
I'll  ease  (as  lovers  do)  my  smart 

With  sonnets  to  my  lady  Life 

Writ  red  in  issues  from  the  heart. 

What  grace  may  lie  within  the  chill 

Of  favor  frozen  fast  in  scorn  ! 
When  Good's  a-freeze,  we  call  it  111 ! 

This  rosy  Time  is  glacier-born. 

Of  fret,  of  dark,  of  thorn,  of  chill, 

Complain  thou  not,  O  heart ;  for  these 

Bank-in  the  current  of  the  will 
To  uses,  arts,  and  charities. 

BALTIMORE,  1879-80. 


52  ROSE-MORALS. 


ROSE-MORALS. 

I.— RED. 

WOULD  that  my  songs  might  be 

What  roses  make  by  day  and  night — 
Distillments  of  my  clod  of  misery 
Into  delight. 

Soul,  could'st  thou  bare  thy  breast 

As  yon  red  rose,  and  dare  the  day, 
All  clean,  and  large,  and  calm  with  velvet  rest  ? 
Say  yea — say  yea ! 

Ah,  dear  my  Rose,  good-bye ; 

The  wind  is  up  ;  so  ;  drift  away. 
That  songs  from  me  as  leaves  from  thee  may  tty; 
I  strive,  I  pray. 

II.— WHITE. 

Soul,  get  thee  to  the  heart 

Of  yonder  tuberose  :  hide  thee  there — 
There  breathe  the  meditations  of  thine  art 
Suffused  with  prayer. 

Of  spirit  grave  yet  light, 

How  fervent  fragrances  uprise 
Pure-born  from  these  most  ri.ch  and  yet  most  white 
Virginities  1 

Mulched  with  unsavory  death, 

Grow,  Soul !  unto  such  white  estate, 
That  virginal-prayerful  art  shall  be  thy  breath, 
Thy  work,  thy  fate. 

BALTIMORE,  1875. 


CORN.  53 


CORN. 

TO-DAY  the  woods  are  trembling  through  and  through 
With  shimmering  forms,  that  flash  before  my  view, 
Then  melt  in  green  as  dawn-stars  melt  in  blue. 
The  leaves  that  wave  against  my  cheek  caress 
Like  women's  hands ;  the  embracing  boughs  express 

A  subtlety  of  mighty  tenderness  ; 
The  copse-depths  into  little  noises  start, 
That  sound  anon  like  beatings  of  a  heart, 
Anon  like  talk  'twixt  lips  not  far  apart. 
The  beech  dreams  balm,  as  a  dreamer  hums  a  song  ; 
Through  that  vague  wafture,  expirations  strong 
Throb  from  young  hickories  breathing  deep  and  long 
With  stress  and  urgence  bold  of  prisoned  spring 

And  ecstasy  of  burgeoning. 

Now,  since  the  dew-plashed  road  of  morn  is  dry, 
Forth  venture  odors  of  more  quality 
And  heavenlier  giving.     Like  Jove's  locks  awry," 

Long  muscadines 

Rich-wreathe  the  spacious  foreheads  of  great  pines, 
And  breathe  ambrosial  passion  from  their  vines. 
I  pray  with  mosses,  ferns  and  flowers  shy 
That  hide  like  gentle  nuns  from  human  eye 
To  lift  adoring  perfumes  to  the  sky. 
I  hear  faint  bridal-sighs  of  brown  and  green 
Dying  to  silent  hints  of  kisses  keen 
As  far  lights  fringe  into  a  pleasant  sheen. 
I  start  at  fragmentary  whispers,  blown 
From  undertalks  of  leafy  souls  unknown, 
Vague  purports  sweet,  of  inarticulate  tone. 


54  CORN. 

Dreaming  of  gods,  men,  nuns  and  brides,  between 
Old  companies  of  oaks  that  inward  lean 
To  join  their  radiant  amplitudes  of  green 

1  slowly  move,  with  ranging  looks  that  pass 

Up  from  the  matted  miracles  of  grass 
Into  yon  veined  complex  of  space 
Where  sky  and  leafage  interlace 

So  close,  the  heaven  of  blue  is  seen 

Inwoven  with  a  heaven  of  green. 


I  wander  to  the  zigzag-cornered  fence . 

Where  sassafras,  intrenched  in  brambles  dense, 

Contests  with  stolid  vehemence 

The  march  of  culture,  setting  limb  and  thorn 
As  pikes  against  the  army  of  the  corn. 

There,  while  I  pause,  my  fieldward-faring  eyes 
Take  harvests,  where  the  stately  corn-ranks  rise, 

Of  inward  dignities 
And  large  benignities  and  insights  wise, 

Graces  and  modest  majesties. 
Thus,  without  theft,  I  reap  another's  field  ; 
Thus,  without  tilth,  I  house  a  wondrous  yield, 
And  heap  my  heart  with  quintuple  crops  concealed. 

Look,  out  of  line  one  tall  corn-captain  stands 
Advanced  beyond  the  foremost  of  his  bands, 
And  waves  his  blades  upon  the  very  edge 
And  hottest  thicket  of  the  battling  hedge. 
Thou  lustrous  stalk,  that  ne'er  mayst  walk  nor  talk, 
Still  shall  thou  type  the  poet-soul  sublime 
That  leads  the  vanward  of  his  timid  time 
And  sings  up  cowards  with  commanding  rhyme-' 


CORN.  55 

Soul  calm,  like  thee,  yet  fain,  like  thee,  to  grow 
By  double  increment,  above,  below  ; 
Soul  homely,  as  thou  art,  yet  rich  in  grace  like  thee, 
Teaching  the  yeomen  selfless  chivalry 
That  moves  in  gentle  curves  of  courtesy  ; 
Soul  filled  like  thy  long  veins  with  sweetness  tense, 

By  every  godlike  sense 
Transmuted  from  the  four  wild  elements. 

Drawn  to  high  plans, 

Thou  lift'st  more  stature  than  a  mortal  man's, 
Yet  ever  piercest  downward  in  the  mould 

And  keepest  hold 
Upon  the  reverend  and  steadfast  earth 

That  gave  thee  birth  ; 
Yea,  standest  smiling  in  thy  future  grave, 

Serene  and  brave, 
With  unremitting  breath 
Inhaling  life  from  death, 
Thine  epitaph  writ  fair  in  fruitage  eloquent, 
Thyself  thy  monument. 


As  poets  should, 

Thou  hast  built  up  thy  hardihood 
With  universal  food, 

Drawn  in  select  proportion  fair 
From  honest  mould  and  vagabond  air ; 
From  darkness  of  the  dreadful  night, 

And  joyful  light ; 

From  antique  ashes,  whose  departed  flame 
In  thee  has  finer  life  and  longer  fame  ; 
From  wounds  and  balms. 
From  storms  and  calms, 
From  potsherds  and  dry  bones 
And  ruin-stones. 


56  CORN. 

Into  thy  vigorous  substance  thou  hast  wrought 
Whate'er  the  hand  of  Circumstance  hath  brought ; 

Yea,  into  cool  solacing  green  hast  spun 

White  radiance  hot  from  out  the  sun. 
So  thou  dost  mutually  leaven 
Strength  of  earth  with  grace  of  heaven ; 

So  thou  dost  marry  new  and  old 

Into  a  one  of  higher  mould  ; 

So  thou  dost  reconcile  the  hot  and  cold, 

The  dark  and  bright, 
And  many  a  heart-perplexing  opposite, 
And  so, 

Akin  by  blood  to  high  and  low, 
Fitly  thou  playest  out  thy  poet's  part, 
Richly  expending  thy  much-bruised  heart 

In  equal  care  to  nourish  lord  in  hall 
Or  beast  in  stall  : 

Thou  took'st  from  all  that  thou  mightst  give  to  all 


O  steadfast  dweller  on  the  selfsame  spot 
Where  thou  wast  born,  that  still  repinest  not — 
Type  of  the  home-fond  heart,  the  happy  lot ! — 

Deeply  thy  mild  content  rebukes  the  land 

Whose  flimsy  homes,  built  on  the  shifting  sand 
Of  trade,  for  ever  rise  and  fall 
With  alternation  whimsical, 

Enduring  scarce  a  day, 

Then  swept  away 

By  swift  engulfments  of  incalculable  tides 
Whereon  capricious  Commerce  rides. 
Look,  thou  substantial  spirit  of  content! 
Across  this  little  vale,  thy  continent, 

To  where,  beyond  the  mouldering  mill, 

Yon  old  deserted  Georgian  hill 


CORN.  57 

Bares  to  the  sun  his  piteous  aged  crest 

And  seamy  breast, 

By  restless-hearted  children  left  to  lie 
Untended  there  beneath  the  heedless  sky, 
As  barbarous  folk  expose  their  old  to  die. 

Upon  that  generous-rounding  side, 

With  gullies  scarified  <<SN<>^ 

Where  keen  Neglect  his  lash  hath  plied, 

Dwelt  one  I  knew  of  old,  who  played  at  toil, 

And  gave  to  coquette  Cotton  soul  and  soil. 
Scorning  the  slow  reward  of  patient  grain, 
He  sowed  his  heart  with  hopes  of  swifter  gain, 
Then  sat  him  down  and  waited  for  the  rain. 

He  sailed  in  borrowed  ships  of  usury — 

A  foolish  Jason  on  a  treacherous  sea, 

Seeking  the  Fleece  and  finding  misery. 

Lulled  by  smooth-rippling  loans,  in  idle  trance 
He  lay,  content  that  unthrift  Circumstance 
Should  plough  for  him  the  stony  field  of  Chance. 

Yea,  gathering  crops  whose  worth  no  man  might  tell, 

He  staked  his  life  on  games  of  Buy-and-Sell, 

And  turned  each  field  into  a  gambler's  hell. 
Aye,  as  each  year  began, 
My  farmer  to  the  neighboring  city  ran ; 

Passed  with  a  mournful  anxious  face 

Into  the  banker's  inner  place ; 

Parleyed,  excused,  pleaded  for  longer  grace  ; 
Railed  at  the  drought,  the  worm,  the  rust,  the  grass  ; 
Protested  ne'er  again  'twould  come  to  pass ; 
With  many  an  oh  and  if  and  but  alas 

Parried  or  swallowed  searching  questions  rude, 

And  kissed  the  dust  to  soften  Dives's  mood. 

At  last,  small  loans  by  pledges  great  renewed, 
He  issues  smiling  from  the  fatal  door, 
And  buys  with  lavish  hand  his  yearly  store 


58  CORN. 

Till  his  small  borrowings  will  yield  no  more. 

Aye,  as  each  year  declined, 

With  bitter  heart  and  ever-brooding  mind 

He  mourned  his  fate  unkind. 

In  dust,  in  rain,  with  might  and  main, 
He  nursed  his  cotton,  cursed  his  grain, 
Fretted  for  news  that  made  him  fret  again, 

Snatched  at  each  telegram  of  Future  Sale, 

And  thrilled  with  Bulls'  or  Bears'  alternate  wail — 

In  hope  or  fear  alike  for  ever  pale. 
And  thus  from  year  to  year,  through  hope  and  fear} 
With  many  a  curse  and  many  a  secret  tear, 
Striving  in  vain  his  cloud  of  debt  to  clear, 
At  last 

He  woke  to  find  his  foolish  dreaming  past, 
And  all  his  best-of-life  the  easy  prey 
Of  squandering  scamps  and  quacks  that  lined  his  way 
With  vile  array, 

From  rascal  statesman  down  to  petty  knave  ; 

Himself,  at  best,  for  all  his  bragging  brave, 

A  gamester's  catspaw  and  a  banker's  slave. 

Then,  worn  and  gray,  and  sick  with  deep  unrest, 
He  fled  away  into  the  oblivious  West, 
Unmourned,  unblest. 


Old  hill !  old  hill !  thou  gashed  and  hairy  Lear 
Whom  the  divine  Cordelia  of  the  year, 
E'en  pitying  Spring,  will  vainly  strive  to  cheer — 
King,  that  no  subject  man  nor  beast  may  own, 
Discrowned,  undaughtered  and  alone — 
Yet  shall  the  great  God  turn  thy  fate, 
And  bring  thee  back  into  thy  monarch  state 
-v^       And  majesty  immaculate. 

Lo,  through  hot  waverings  of  the  August  morn, 


CORN.  59 

Thou  givest  from  thy  vasty  sides  forlorn 
Visions  of  golden  treasuries  of  corn — 
Ripe  largesse  lingering  for  some  bolder  heart 
That  manfully  shall  take  thy  part, 
And  tend  thee, 
And  defend  thee, 
With  antique  sinew  and  with  modern  art 

SUNNYSIDE,  GEORGIA,  August,  1874. 


60  THE  SYMPHONY. 


THE  SYMPHONY. 

"  O  TRADE  !  O  Trade  !  would  thou  wert  dead  !    \ 
,  .-  —  t-  —  •  The  Time  needs  heart  —  'tis  tired  of  head  :   - 
"""""We're  all  for  love,"  the  violins  said. 

"  Of  what  avail  the  rigorous  tale 
Of  bill  for  coin  and  box  for  bale  ? 
Grant  thee,  O  Trade  !  thine  uttermost  hope  : 
Level  red  gold  with  blue  sky-slope, 
And  base  it  deep  as  devils  grope  : 
When  all  's  done,  what  hast  thou  won 
Of  the  only  sweet  that's  under  the  sun? 
Ay,  canst  thou  buy  a  single  sigh 
Of  true  love's  least,  least  ecstasy  ?  " 
Then,  with  a  bridegroom's  heart-beats  trembling, 
All  the  mightier  strings  assembling 
Ranged  them  on  the  violins'  side 
As  when  the  bridegroom  leads  the  bride, 
And,  heart  in  voice,  together  cried  : 

"  Yea,  what  avail  the  endless  tale 
Of  gain  by  cunning  and  plus  by  sale  ? 
Look  up  the  land,  look  down  the  land 
The  poor,  the  poor,  the  poor,  they  stand 
Wedged  by  the  pressing  of  Trade's  hand 
Against  an  inward-opening  door 
That  pressure  tightens  evermore  : 
They  sigh  a  monstrous  foul  -air  sigh 
For  the  outside  leagues  of  liberty, 
Where  Art,  sweet  lark,  translates  the  sky 


a  heavenly  melody. 
'  Each  day,  all  day  '  (these  poor  folks  say), 
'  In  the  same  old  year-long,  drear-long  way, 


THE  SYMPHONY.  6 1 

We  weave  in  the  mills  and  heave,  in  the  kilns, 

We  sieve  mine-meshes  under  the  hills, 

And  thieve  much  gold  from  the  Devil's  bank  tills, 

To  relieve,  O  God,  what  manner  of  ills  ? — 

The  beasts,  they  hunger,  and  eat,  and  die  ; 

And  so  do  we,  and  the  world 's  a  sty ; 

Hush,  fellow-swine  :  why  nuzzle  and  cry  ? 

Swinehood  hath  no  remedy 

Say  many  men,  and  hasten  by, 

Clamping  the  nose  and  blinking  the  eye. 

But  who  said  once,  in  the  lordly  tone, 

Man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone 

But  all  that  comethfrom  the  Throne  f 

Hath  God  said  so  ? 
x      But  Trade  saith  No  : 

And  the  kilns  and  the  curt-tongued  mills  saf  Go  1 
There 's  plenty  that  can,  if  you  can't  :  we  knt 
Move  out,  if  you  think  you  're  underpaid. 
The  poor  are  prolific  ;  ygjjre  not  afraid; 

Trade  is  trade:  " 
Thereat  this  passionate  protesting 
Meekly  changed,  and  softened  till 
It  sank  to  sad  requesting 
And  suggesting  sadder  still  : 
;<  And  oh,  if  men  might  some  time  see 
How  piteous-false  the  poor  decree 
That  trade  no  more  than  trade  must  be ! 
Does  business  mean,  Die,  you— live.  If 
Then  '  Trade  is  trade '  but  sings  a  lie  : 
'Tis  only  war  grown  miserly. 
If  business  is  battle,  name  it  so  : 
War-crimes  less  will  shame  it  so, 
And  widows  less  will  blame  it  so. 
Alas,  for  the  poor  to  have  some  part 
In  yon  sweet  living  lands  of  Art, 


62  THE  SYMPHONY. 

Makes  problem  not  for  head,  but  heart. 
Vainly  might  Plato's  brain  revolve  it : 
Plainly  the  heart  of  a  child  could  solve  it." 

And  then,  as  when  from  words  that  seem  but  rude 

We  pass  to  silent  pain  that  sits  abrood 

Back  in  our  heart's  great  dark  and  solitude, 

So  sank  the  strings  to  gentle  throbbing 

Of  long  chords  change-marked  with  sobbing — 

Motherly  sobbing,  not  distinctlier  heard 

Than  half  wing-openings  of  the  sleeping  bird, 

Some  dream  of  danger  to  her  young  hath  stirred. 

Then  stirring  and  demurring  ceased,  and  lo  ! 

Every  least  ripple  of  the  strings'  song-flow 

Died  to  a  level  with  each  level  bow 

And  made  a  great  chord  tranquil-surfaced  so, 

As  a  brook  beneath  his  curving  bank  doth  go 

To  linger  in  the  sacred  dark  and  green 

Where  many  boughs  the  still  pool  overlean 

And  many  leaves  make  shadow  with  their  sheen. 

But  presently 

A  velvet  flute-note  fell  down  pleasantly 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  harmony, 
And  sailed  and  sailed  incessantly, 
As  if  a  petal  from  a  wild-rose  blown 
Had  fluttered  down  upon  that  pool  of  tone 
And  boatwise  dropped  o'  the  convex  side 
And  floated  down  the  glassy  tide 
And  clarified  and  glorified 
The  solemn  spaces  where  the  shadows  bide. 
From  the  warm  concave  of  that  fluted  note 
Somewhat,  half  song,  half  odor,  forth  did  float* 
As  if  a  rose  might  somehow  be  a  throat ; 
"  When  Nature  from  her  far-off  glen 
Flutes  her  soft  messages  to  men, 


THE  SYMPHONY.  63 

The  flute  can  say  them  o'er  again ; 

Yea,  Nature,  singing  sweet  and  lone, 
Breathes  through  life's  strident  polyphone 
The  flute -voice  in  the  world  of  tone. 

Sweet  friends, 

Man's  love  ascends 
To  finer  and  diviner  ends 
Than  man's  mere  thought  e'er  comprehends 
For  I,  e'en  I, 
As  here  I  lie, 
A  petal  on  a  harmony, 
Demand  of  Science  whence  and  why 
Man's  tender  pain,  man's  inward  cry, 
When  he  doth  gaze  on  earth  and  sky  ? 
I  am  not  overbold  : 

I  hold 

Full  powers  from  Nature  manifold. 
I  speak  for  each  no-tongu6d  tree 
That,  spring  by  spring,  doth  nobler  be, 
And  dumbly  and  most  wistfully 
His  mighty  prayerful  arms  outspreads 
Above  men's  oft-unheeding  heads, 
And  his  big  blessing  downward  sheds. 
I  speak  for  all-shaped  blooms  and  leaves, 
Lichens  on  stones  and  moss  on  eaves, 
Grasses  and  grains  in  ranks  and  sheaves  ; 
Broad-fronded  ferns  and  keen-leaved  canes, 
And  briery  mazes  bounding  lanes, 
And  marsh-plants,  thirsty-cupped  for  rains, 
And  milky  stems  and  sugary  veins  ; 
For  every  long-armed  woman-vine 
That  round  a  piteous  tree  doth  twine  ; 
For  passionate  odors,  and  divine 
Pistils,  and  petals  crystalline  ; 
All  purities  of  shady  springs, 


64  THE   SYMPHONY. 

All  shynesses  of  film-winged  things 

That  fly  from  tree-trunks  and  bark-rings; 

All  modesties  of  mountain-fawns 

That  leap  to  covert  from  wild  lawns, 

And  tremble  if  the  day  but  dawns  ; 

All  sparklings  of  small  beady  eyes 

Of  birds,  and  sidelong  glances  wise 

Wherewith  the  jay  hints  tragedies  ; 

All  piquancies  of  prickly  burs, 

And  smoothnesses  of  downs  and  furs 

Of  eiders  and  of  minevers  ; 

All  limpid  honeys  that  do  lie 

At  stamen-bases,  nor  deny 

The  humming-birds'  fine  roguery, 

Bee-thighs,  nor  any  butterfly ; 

All  gracious  curves  of  slender  wings, 

Bark-mottlings,  fibre-spiralings, 

Fern-wavings  and  leaf-flickerings ; 

ach  dial-marked  leaf  and  flower-bell 
Wherewith  in  every  lonesome  dell 
Time  to  himself  his  hours  doth  tell ; 
All  tree-sounds,  rustlings  of  pine-cones, 
Wind-sighings,  doves'  melodious  moans, 
And  night's  unearthly  under-tones  ; 
All  placid  lakes  and  waveless  deeps, 
All  cool  reposing  mountain-steeps, 
Vale-calms  and  tranquil  lotos-sleeps  ; — 
Yea,  all  fair  forms,  and  sounds,  and  Iights5 
And  warmths,  and  mysteries,  and  mights, 
Of  Nature's  utmost  depths  and  heights, 
— These  doth  my  timid  tongue  present, 
Their  mouthpiece  and  leal  instrument 
And  servant,  all  love-eloquent. 

heard,  when  '  All 'for  love  '  the  violins  cried  : 
So,  Nature  calls  through  all  her  system  wide, 


THE  SYMPHONY.  65 

Give  me  thy  love,  O  man,  so  long  denied. 

Much  time  is  run,  and  man  hath  changed  his  ways, 

Since  Nature,  in  the  antique  fable-days, 

Was  hid  from  man's  true  love  by  proxy  fays, 

False  fauns  and  rascal  gods  that  stole  her  praise. 

The  nymphs,  cold  creatures  of  man's  colder  brain, 

Chilled  Nature's  streams  till  man's  warm  heart  was  fain 

Never  to  lave  its  love  in  them  again. 

Later,  a  sweet  Voice  Love  thy  neighbor  said ; 

Then  first  the  bounds  of  neighborhood  outspread 

Beyond  all  confines  of  old  ethnic  dread. 

Vainly  the  Jew  might  wag  his  covenant  head  : 

'All  men  are  neighbors,'  so  the  sweet  Voice  said. 

So,  when  man's  arms  had  circled  all  man's  race, 

The  liberal  compass  of  his  warm  embrace 

Stretched  bigger  yet  in  the  dark  bounds  of  space  ; 

With  hands  a-grope  he  felt  smooth  Nature's  grace, 

Drew  her  to  breast  and  kissed  her  sweetheart  face  : 

Yea  man  found  neighbors  in  great  hills  and  trees 

And  streams  and  clouds  and  suns  and  birds  and  bees, 

And  throbbed  with  neighbor-loves  in  loving  these. 

But  oh,  the  poor !  the  poor !  the  poor ! 

That  stand  by  the  inward-opening  door 

Trade's  hand  doth  tighten  ever  more, 

And  sigh  their  monstrous  foul-air  sigh 

For  the  outside  hills  of  liberty, 

Where  Nature  spreads  her  wild  blue  sky 

For  Art  to  make  into  melody  ! 

Thou  Trade  !  thou  king  of  the  modern  days  I 

Change  thy  ways, 
>s_yv>^Change  thy  ways ; 
Let  the  sweaty  laborers  file 

A  little  while, 

A  little  while, 
Where  Art  and  Nature  sing  and  smile. 


66  THE  SYMPHONY. 

Trade  !  is  thy  heart  all  dead,  all  dead  ? 
And  hast  thou  nothing  but  a  head  ? 
I  'm  all  for  heart,"  the  flute-voice  said, 
And  into  sudden  silence  fled, 
Like  as  a  blush  that  while  'tis  red 
Dies  to  a  still,  still  white  instead. 

Thereto  a  thrilling  calm  succeeds, 
Till  presently  the  silence  breeds 
A  little  breeze  among  the  reeds 
That  seems  to  blow  by  sea-marsh  weeds  : 
Then  from  the  gentle  stir  and  fret 
Sings  out  the  melting  clarionet, 
Like  as  a  lady  sings  while  yet 
Her  eyes  with  salty  tears  are  wet. 

"  O  Trade  !  O  Trade  ! "  the  Lady  said, 

"  I  too  will  wish  thee  utterly  dead 
If  all  thy  heart  is  in  thy  head. 
For  O  my  God  !  and  O  my  God  ! 
What  shameful  ways  have  women  trod 
At  beckoning  of  Trade's  golden  rod  t 
Alas  when  sighs  are  traders'  lies, 
And  heart's-ease  eyes  and  violet  eyes 

Are  merchandise  ! 

O  purchased  lips  that  kiss  with  pain  ! 
O  cheeks  coin-spotted  with  smirch  and  stain  I 
O  trafficked  hearts  that  break  in  twain  ! 
—And  yet  what  wonder  at  my  sisters'  crime  ? 
So  hath  Trade  withered  up  Love's  sinewy  prime, 
Men  love  not  women  as  in  olden  time. 
Ah,  not  in  these  cold  merchantable  days 
Deem  men  their  life  an  opal  gray,  where  plays 
The  one  red  Sweet  of  gracious  ladies'-praise. 
Now,  comes  a  suitor  with  sharp  prying  eye- 
Says,  Here,  you  Lady,  if  you  '#  siU,  I  *U  buy  : 


THE  SYMPHONY.  67 

Come,  heart  for  heart — a  trade  ?     What !  weeping  f  why  t 

Shame  on  such  wooers'  dapper  mercery  ! 

I  would  my  lover  kneeling  at  my  feet 

In  humble  manliness  should  cry,  O  sweet  / 

I  know  not  if  thy  heart  my  heart  will  greet  .• 

/  ask  not  if  thy  love  my  love  can  meet : 

Whatever  thy  worshipful  soft  tongue  shall  say, 

I'll  kiss  thine  answer,  be  it  yea  or  nay  : 

I  do  but  know  I  love  thee,  and  I  pray 

To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day. 

Woe  him  that  cunning  trades  in  hearts  contrives  I 

Base  love  good  women  to  base  loving  drives. 

If  men  loved  larger,  larger  were  our  lives  ; 

And  wooed  they  nobler,  won  they  nobler  wives.** 

There  thrust  the  bold  straightforward  horn 
To  battle  for  that  lady  lorn, 
With  heartsome  voice  of  mellow  scorn, 
Like  any  knight  in  knighthood's  morn. 

"  Now  comfort  thee,"  said  he, 

"  Fair  Lady. 

For  God  shall  right  thy  grievous  wrong, 
And  man  shall  sing  thee  a  true-love  song, 
Voiced  in  act  his  whole  life  long, 

Yea,  all  thy  sweet  life  long, 

Fair  Lady. 

Where 's  he  that  craftily  hath  said, 
The  day  of  chivalry  is  dead  ? 
I  '11  prove  that  lie  upon  his  head, 

Or  I  will  die  instead, 

Fair  Lady. 

Is  Honor  gone  into  his  grave  ? 
Hath  Faith  become  a  caitiff  knave, 
And  Selfhood  turned  into  a  slave 

To  work  in  Mammon's  cave, 


THE  SYMPHONY. 

^       Fair  Lady  ? 

vfi\l  Truth's  long  blade  ne'er  gleam  again? 
Hath  Giant  Trade  in  dungeons  slain 
All  great  contempts  of  mean-got  gain 

And  hates  of  inward  stain, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

For  aye  shall  name  and  fame  be  sold, 
And  place  be  hugged  for  the  sake  of  gold, 
And  smirch-robed  Justice  feebly  scold 

At  Crime  all  money-bold, 

Fair  Lady  ? 
Shall  self-wrapt  husbands  aye  forget 
Kiss-pardons  for  the  daily  fret 
Wherewith  sweet  wifely  eyes  are  wet— 

Blind  to  lips  kiss-wise  set — 

Fair  Lady? 

Shall  lovers  higgle,  heart  for  heart, 
Till  wooing  grows  a  trading  mart 
Where  much  for  little,  and  all  for  part, 

Make  love  a  cheapening  art, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  woman  scorch  for  a  single  sin 
That  her  betrayer  may  revel  in, 
And  she  be  burnt,  and  he  but  grin 

When  that  the  flames  begin, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  ne'er  prevail  the  woman's  plea, 
We  maids  would 'far ,  far  whiter  be 
If  that  our  eyes  might  sometimes  see 

Men  maids  in  purity, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  Trade  aye  salve  his  conscience-aches 
With  jibes  at  Chivalry's  old  mistakes — 
The  wars  that  o'erhot  knighthood  makes 

For  Christ's  and  ladies'  sakes, 


THE  SYMPHONY.  69 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Now  by  each  knight  that  e'er  hath  prayed 
To  fight  like  a  man  and  love  like  a  maid, 
Since  Pembroke's  life,  as  Pembroke's  blade, 
I'  the  scabbard,  death,  was  laid, 

Fair  Lady, 

I  dare  avouch  my  faith  is  bright 
That  God  doth  right  and  God  hath  might. 
Nor  time  hath  changed  His  hair  to  white, 
Nor  His  dear  love  to  spite, 

Fair  Lady. 

I  doubt  no  doubts  :  I  strive,  and  shrive  my  clay, 
And  fight  my  fight  in  the  patient  modern  way 
For  true  love  and  for  thee — ah  me  !  and  pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day, 

Fair  Lady." 

Made  end  that  knightly  horn,  and  spurred  away 
Into  the  thick  of  the  melodious  fray. 


And  then  the  hautboy  played  and  smiled, 
And  sang  like  any  large-eyed  child, 
Cool-hearted  and  all  undefiled. 

"  Huge  Trade  !  "  he  said, 
*  Would  thou  wouldst  lift  me  on  thy  head 
And  run  where'er  my  finger  led ! 
Once  said  a  Man — and  wise  was  He — 
Never  shall  thou  the  heavens  see, 
Save  as  a  little  child  thou  be" 
Then  o'er  sea-lashings  of  commingling  tunes 
The  ancient  wise  bassoons, 

Like  weird 

Gray-beard 
Old  harpers  sitting  on  the  high  sea-dunes, 

Chanted  runes : 


7O  THE  SYMPHONY. 

"  Bright-waved  gain,  gray-waved  loss, 
The  sea  of  all  doth  lash  and  toss, 
One  wave  forward  and  one  across  : 
But  now  'twas  trough,  now  'tis  crest, 
And  worst  doth  foam  and  flash  to  best, 
And  curst  to  blest. 


Life!  Life  !  thou  sea-fugue,  writ  from  east  to  west, 

Love,  Love  alone  can  pore 

On  thy  dissolving  score 

Of  harsh  half-phrasings, 
Blotted  ere  writ, 

And  double  erasings 
Of  chords  most  fit. 
Yea,  Love,  sole  music-master  blest, 
May  read  thy  weltering  palimpsest. 
To  follow  Time's  dying  melodies  through, 
And  never  to  lose  the  old  in  the  new, 
And  ever  to  solve  the  discords  true — 

Love  alone  can  do. 

And  ever  Love  hears  the  poor-folks'  crying, 
And  ever  Love  hears  the  women's  sighing, 
And  ever  sweet  knighthood's  death-defying, 
And  ever  wise  childhood's  deep  implying, 
But  never  a  trader's  glozing  and  lying. 


And  yet  shall  Love  himself  be  heard, 
Though  long  deferred,  though  long  deferred  : 
O'er  the  modern  waste  a  dove  hath  whirred : 
~-  Music  is  Love  in  search  of  a  word." 

BALTIMORE,  1875. 


MY  SPRINGS. 


MY  SPRINGS. 

IN  the  heart  of  the  Hills  of  Life,  I  know 
Two  springs  that  with  unbroken  flow 
Forever  pour  their  lucent  streams 
Into  my  soul's  far  Lake  of  Dreams. 


Not  larger  than  two  eyes,  they  lie 
Beneath  the  many-changing  sky 
And  mirror  all  of  life  and  time, 
— Serene  and  dainty  pantomime. 


Shot  through  with  lights  of  stars  and  dawns, 
And  shadowed  sweet  by  ferns  and  fawns, 
— Thus  heaven  and  earth  together  vie 
Their  shining  depths  to  sanctify. 


Always  when  the  large  Form  of  Love 
Is  hid  by  storms  that  rage  above, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
Love  in  his  very  verity. 


Always  when  Faith  with  stifling  stress 
Of  grief  hath  died  in  bitterness, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
A  Faith  that  smiles  immortally. 


72  MY  SPRINGS. 

Always  when  Charity  and  Hope, 
In  darkness  bounden,  feebly  grope, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
A  Light  that  sets  my  captives  free. 


Always,  when  Art  on  perverse  wing 
Flies  where  I  cannot  hear  him  sing, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
A  charm  that  brings  him  back  to  me. 


When  Labor  faints,  and  Glory  fails, 
And  coy  Reward  in  sighs  exhales, 
I  gaze. in  my  two  springs  and  see 
Attainment  full  and  heavenly. 


O  Love,  O  Wife,  thine  eyes  are  they, 

— My  springs  from  out  whose  shining  gray 

Issue  the  sweet  celestial  streams 

That  feed  my  life's  bright  Lake  of  Dreams. 


Oval  and  large  and  passion-pure 
And  gray  and  wise  and  honor-sure  ; 
Soft  as  a  dying  violet-breath 
Yet  calmly  unafraid  of  death ; 


Thronged,  like  two  dove-cotes  of  gray  doves, 
Wiih  wife's  and  mother's  and  poor-folk's  loves, 
And  home-loves  and  high  glory-loves 
And  science-loves  and  story-loves, 


MY   SPRINGS.  73 


And  loves  for  all  that  God  and  man 
In  art  and  nature  make  or  plan, 
And  lady-loves  for  spidery  lace 
And  broideries  and  supple  grace 


And  diamonds  and  the  whole  sweet  round 
Of  littles  that  large  life  compound, 
And  loves  for  God  and  God's  bare  truth, 
And  loves  for  Magdalen  and  Ruth, 


Dear  eyes,  dear  eyes  and  rare  complete- 
Being  heavenly-sweet  and  earthly-sweet, 
— I  marvel  that  God  made  you  mine, 
For  when  He  frowns,  'tis  then  ye  shine ! 


BALTIMORE,  1874. 
4 


74  IN   ABSENCE. 


IN   ABSENCE. 

I. 

THE  storm  that  snapped  our  fate's  one  ship  in  twain 
Hath  blown  my  half  o'  the  wreck  from  thine  apart. 

0  Love  !  O  Love  !  across  the  gray-waved  main 

To  thee-ward  strain  my  eyes,  my  arms,  my  heart 

1  ask  my  God  if  e'en  in  His  sweet  place, 
Where,  by  one  waving  of  a  wistful  wing, 

My  soul  could  straightway  tremble  face  to  face 

With  thee,  with  thee,  across  the  stellar  ring — 
Yea,  where  thine  absence  I  could  ne'er  bewail 

Longer  than  lasts  that  little  blank  of  bliss 
When  lips  draw  back,  with  recent  pressure  pale, 
To  round  and  redden  for  another  kiss — 

Would  not  my  lonesome  heart  still  sigh  for  thee 
What  time  the  drear  kiss-intervals  must  be  ? 


II. 


So  do  the  mottled  formulas  of  Sense 

Glide  snakewise  through  our  dreams  of  Aftertime  ; 
So  errors  breed  in  reeds  and  grasses  dense 

That  bank  our  singing  rivulets  of  rhyme. 
By  Sense  rule  Space  and  Time  ;  but  in  God's  Land 

Their  intervals  are  not,  save  such  as  lie 
Betwixt  successive  tones  in  concords  bland 

Whose  loving  distance  makes  the  harmony. 


IN  ABSENCE.  75 

Ah,  there  shall  never  come  'twixt  me  and  thee 

Gross  dissonances  of  the  mile,  the  year  ; 
But  in  the  multichords  of  ecstasy 
Our  souls  shall  mingle,  yet  be  featured  clear, 
And  absence,  wrought  to  intervals  divine., ' 
Shall  part,  yet  link,  thy  nature's  tone  and  mine. 


III. 


Look  down  the  shining  peaks  of  all  my  days 
Base-hidden  in  the  valleys  of  deep  nighc, 
So  shall  thou  see  the  heights  and  depths  of  praise 

My  love  would  render  unto  love's  delight ; 
For  I  would  make  each  day  an  Alp  sublime 

Of  passionate  snow,  white-hot  yet  icy-clear, 
—One  crystal  of  the  true-loves  of  all  time 

Spiring  the  world's  prismatic  atmosphere  ; 
An*d  I  would  make  each  night  an  awful  vale 

Deep  as  tny  soul,  obscure  .as  modesty, 
With  every  star  in  heaven  trembling  pale 

O'er  sw.eet  profounds  where  only  Love  can  see. 

Oh,  runs  not  thus  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught  ? — 
When  life  's  all  love,  'tis  life  :  aught  else,  'tis  naught. 


IV. 


Let  no  man  say,  He  at  his  lady1  s  feet 

Lays  worship  that  to  Heaven  alone  belongs  / 
Yea,  swings  the  incense  that  for  God  is  meet 
.  \     In  flippant  censers  of  light  lover's  songs. 

J 

J  Who  says  it,  knows  not  God,  nor  love,  nor  thee  ; 

For  love  is  large  as  is  yon  heavenly  dome  : 
O       In  love's  great  blue,  each  passion  is  full  free 
To  fly  his  favorite  flight  and  build  his  home. 


76  IN  ABSENCE. 

Did  e'er  a  lark  with  skyward-pointing  beak 

Stab  by  mischance  a  level-flying  dove  ? 
Wife-love  flies  level,  his  dear  mate  to  seek  : 
God-love  darts  straight  into  the  skies  above. 

Crossing,  the  windage  of  each  other's  wings 
"""S.      But  speeds  them  both  upon  their  journeyings. 

BALTIMORE,  1874. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 


I. 

O  AGE  that  half  believ'st  thou  half  believ'st, 

Half  doubt'st  the  substance  of  thine  own  half  doubt, 
And,  half  perceiving  that  thou  half  perceiv'st, 

Stand'st  at  thy  temple  door,  heart  in,  head  out ! 
Lo !  while  thy  heart 's  within,  helping  the  choir, 

Without,  thine  eyes  range  up  and  down  the  time, 
Blinking  at  o'er-bright  science,  smit  with  desire 

To  see  and  not  to  see.     Hence,  crime  on  crime. 
Yea,  if  the  Christ  (called  thine)  now  paced  yon  street, 

Thy  halfness  hot  with  His  rebuke  would  swell ; 
Legions  of  scribes  would  rise  and  run  and  beat 

His  fair  intolerable  Wholeness  twice  to  hell. 

Nay  (so,  dear  Heart,  thou  whisperest  in  my  soul), 
'  T  is  a  half  time,  yet  Time  will  make  it  whole. 


II. 

Now  at  thy  soft  recalling  voice  I  rise 

Where  thought  is  lord  o'er  Time's  complete  estate. 
Like  as  a  dove  from  out  the  gray  sedge  flies 

To  tree-tops  green  where  cooes  his  heavenly  mate. 
From  these  clear  coverts  high  and  cool  I  see 

How  every  time  with  every  time  is  knit, 
And  each  to  all  is  mortised  cunningly, 

And  none  is  sole  or  whole,  yet  all  are  fit. 
Thus,  if  this  Age  but  as  a  comma  show 


78  ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

'Twixt  weightier  clauses  of  large-worded  years, 
My  calmer  soul  scorns  not  the  mark  :  I  know 

This  crooked  point  Time's  complex  sentence  clears. 
Yet  more  I  learn  while,  Friend  !  I  sit  by  thee  : 
Who  sees  all  time,  sees  all  eternity. 


III. 


If  I  do  ask,  How  God  can  dumbness  keep 

While  Sin  creeps  grinning  through  His  house  of  Time, 
Stabbing  His  saintliest  children  in  their  sleep, 

And  staining  holy  walls  with  clots  of  crime  ? — 
Or,  How  may  He  whose  wish  but  names  a  fact 

Refuse  what  miser's-scanting  of  supply 
Would  richly  glut  each  void  where  man  hath  lacked 

Of  grace  or  bread  ? — or,  How  may  Power  deny 
Wholeness  to  th'  almost-folk  that  hurt  our  hope — 

These  heart-break  Hamlets  who  so  barely  fail 
In  life  or  art  that  but  a  hair's  more  scope 

Had  set  them  fair  on  heights  they  ne'er  may  scale  ?— 
Somehow  by  thee,  dear  Love,  I  win  content : 
Thy  Perfect  stops  th'  Imperfect's  argument. 


IV. 


By  the  more  height  of  thy  sweet  stature  grown,   ' 

Twice-eyed  with  thy  gray  vision  set  in  mine,  > 
I  ken  far  lands  to  wifeless  men  unknown, 

I  compass  stars  for  one-sexed  eyes  too  fine.  Lr 
No  text  on  sea-horizons  cloudily  writ,     /* 

No  maxim  vaguely  starred  in  fields  or  skies/- 
But  this  wise  thou-in-me  deciphers  it :      £_ 

Oh,  thou  'rt  the  Height  of  heights,  the  Eye  of  eyes.   •, 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT.  79 

Not  hardest  Fortune's  most  unbounded  stress 
Can  blind  my  soul  nor  hurl  it  from  on  high, 

Possessing  thee,  the  self  of  loftiness, 
And  very  light  that  Light  discovers  by. 

Howe'er  thou  turn'st,  wrong  Earth  !  still  Love 's  in  sight : 

For  we  are  taller  than  the  breadth  of  night. 

V 

BALTIMORE,  1874-5. 


8O  LAUS  MARLE. 


LAUS   MARLE. 

ACROSS  the  brook  of  Time  man  leaping  goes 

On  stepping-stones  of  epochs,  that  uprise 
Fixed,  memorable,  midst  broad  shallow  flows 

Of  neutrals,  kill-times,  sleeps,  indifferencies. 
So  twixt  each  morn  and  night  rise  salient  heaps  : 

Some  cross  with  but  a  zigzag,  jaded  pace 
From  meal  to  meal  :  some  with  convulsive  leaps 

Shake  the  green  tussocks  of  malign  disgrace  : 
And  some  advance  by  system  and  deep  art 

O'er  vantages  of  wealth,  place,  learning,  tact. 
But  thou  within  thyself,  dear  manifold  heart, 

Dost  bind  all  epochs  in  one  dainty  Fact. 
Oh,  sweet,  my  pretty  sum  of  history, 
I  leapt  the  breadth  of  Time  in  loving  thee  I 

BALTIMORE,  1874-5 


SPECIAL  PLEADING.  8l 


SPECIAL  PLEADING. 

TIME,  hurry  my  Love  to  me  : 

Haste,  haste  !     Lov'st  not  good  company  ? 
Here 's  but  a  heart-break  sandy  waste 
'Twixt  Now  and  Then.     Why,  killing  haste 

Were  best,  dear  Time,  for  thee,  for  thee  ! 

Oh,  would  that  I  might  divine 
Thy  name  beyond  the  zodiac  sign 

Wherefrom  our  times-to-come  descend. 

He  called  thee  Sometime.     Change  it,  friend 
Now-time  sounds  so  much  more  fine  1 

Sweet  Sometime,  fly  fast  to  me  : 
Poor  Now-time  sits  in  the  Lonesome-tree 
And  broods  as  gray  as  any  dove, 
And  calls,  When  wilt  thou  come,  O  Love? 
And  pleads  across  the  waste  to  thee. 

Good  Moment,  that  giv'st  him  me, 
Wast  ever  in  love  ?     Maybe,  maybe 
Thou  'It  be  this  heavenly  velvet  time 
When  Day  and  Night  as  rhyme  and  rhyme 
Set  lip  to  lip  dusk-modestly  ; 

Or  haply  some  noon  afar, 

— O  life's  top  bud,  mixt  rose  and  star, 
How  ever  can  thine  utmost  sweet 
Be  star-consummate,  rose-complete, 

Till  thy  rich  reds  full  opened  are  ? 
4* 


82  SPECIAL  PLEADING. 

Well,  be  it  dusk- time  or  noon- time, 
I  ask  but  one  small  boon,  Time  : 
Come  thou  in  night,  come  thou  in  day, 
I  care  not,  I  care  not :  have  thine  own  way, 
But  only,  but  only,  come  soon,  Time. 

BALTIMORE,  1875. 


**• 


THE  BEE. 


THE  BEE. 

V 

WHAT  time  I  paced,  at  pleasant  morn, 

A  deep  and  dewy  wood, 
I  heard  a  mellow  hunting-horn 

Make  dim  report  of  Dian's  lustihood 
Far  down  a  heavenly  hollow. 
Mine  ear,  though  fain,  had  pain  to  follow  : 

Tara!  it  twanged,  tara-tara  !  it  blew, 

Yet  wavered  oft,  and  flew 
Most  ficklewise  about,  or  here,  or  there, 
A  music  now  from  earth  and  now  from  air. 

But  on  a  sudden,  lo  ! 

I  marked  a  blossom  shiver  to  and  fro 
With  dainty  inward  storm ;  and  there  within 
A  down-drawn  trump  of  yellow  jessamine 
A  bee 

Thrust  up  its  sad-gold  body  lustily, 
All  in  a  honey  madness  hotly  bound 
On  blissful  burglar 

A  cunning  sound 

In  that  wing-music  held  me  :  down  I  lay 
In  amber  shades  of  many  a  golden  spray, 
Where  looping  low  with  languid  arms  the  Vine 
In  wreaths  of  ravishment  did  overtwine 
Her  kneeling  Live-Oak,  thousand-fold  to  plight 
Herself  unto  her  own  true  stalwart  knight. 

As  some  dim  blur  of  distant  music  nears 
The  long-desiring  sense,  and  slowly  clears 


84  THE  BEE. 

To  forms  of  time  and  apprehensive  tune, 
So,  as  I  lay,  full  soon 
Interpretation  throve  :  the  bee's  fanfare, 
Through  sequent  films  of  discourse  vague  as  air, 
Passed  to  plain  words,  while,  fanning  faint  perfume. 
The  bee  o'erhung  a  rich,  unrifled  bloom  : 
*'  O  Earth,  fair  lordly  Blossom,  soft  a-shine 
Upon  the  star-pranked  universal  vine, 
Hast  nought  for  me  ? 

To  thee 

Come  I,  a  poet,  hereward  haply  blown, 
From  out  another  worldflower  lately  flown. 
Wilt  ask,  What  profit  e'er  a  poet  brings  ? 
He  beareth  starry  stuff  about  his  wings 
To  pollen  thee  and  sting  thee  fertile  :  nay, 
If  still  thou  narrow  thy  contracted  way, 
— Worldflower,  if  thou  refuse  me — 
— Worldflower,  if  thou  abuse  me, 
And  hoist  thy  stamen's  spear-point  high 
To  wound  my  wing  and  mar  mine  eye — 
Nathless  I  '11  drive  me  to  thy  deepest  sweet, 
Yea,  richlier  shall  that  pain  the  pollen  beat 
From  me  to  thee,  for  oft  these  pollens  be 
Fine  dust  from  wars  that  poets  wage  for  thee. 
But,  O  beloved  Earthbloom  soft  a-shine 
Upon  the  universal  Jessamraie, 
Prithee,  abuse  me  not, 
Prithee,  refuse  me  not, 
Yield,  yield  the  heartsome  honey  love  to  me 

Hid  in  thy  nectary  ! " 
And  as  I  sank  into  a  dimmer  dream 
The  pleading  bee's  song-burthen  sole  did  seem 
"  Hast  ne'er  a  honey-drop  of  love  for  me 

In  thy  huge  nectary  ?  " 
TAMPA,  FLORIDA,  1877. 


THE  HARLEQUIN  OF  DREAMS.       8$ 


THE  HARLEQUIN  OF  DREAMS. 

SWIFT,  through  some  trap  mine  eyes  have  never  found. 
Dim-panelled  in  the  painted  scene  of  Sleep, 
Thou,  giant  Harlequin  of  Dreams,  dost  leap 

Upon  my  spirit's  stage.     Then  Sight  and  Sound, 

Then  Space  and  Time,  then  Language,  Mete  and  Bound, 
And  all  familiar  Forms  that  firmly  keep 
Man's  reason  in  the  road,  change  faces,  peep 

Betwixt  the  legs  and  mock  the  daily  round. 

Yet  thou  canst  more  than  mock  :  sometimes  my  tears 
At  midnight  break  through  bounden  lids — a  sign 
Thou  hast  a  heart :  and  oft  thy  little  leaven 

Of  dream-taught  wisdom  works  me  bettered  years. 
In  one  night  witch,  saint,  trickster,  fool  divine, 
I  think  thou  'rt  Jester  at  the  Court  of  Heaven ! 

BALTIMORE,  1878. 


86  STREET-CRIES. 


STREET-CRIES. 

OFT  seems  the  Time  a  market-town 
Where  many  merchant-spirits  meet 

Who  up  and  down  and  up  and  down 
Cry  out  along  the  street 

Their  needs,  as  wares  ;  one  thus,  one  so  : 
Till  all  the  ways  are  full  of  sound : 

— But  still  come  rain,  and  sun,  and  snow, 
And  still  the  world  goes  round. 


I. 

REMONSTRANCE. 

"  OPINION,  let  me  alone  :  I  am  not  thine. 
Prim  Creed,  with  categoric  point,  forbear 

To  feature  me  my  Lord  by  rule  and  line. 
Thou  canst  not  measure  Mistress  Nature's  hair, 

Not  one  sweet  inch  :  nay,  if  thy  sight  is  sharp, 
Would'st  count  the  strings  upon  an  angel's  harp  ? 
Forbear,  forbear. 

"Oh  let  me  love  my  Lord  more  fathom  deep 
Than  there  is  line  to  sound  with  :  let  me  love 
My  fellow  not  as  men  that  mandates  keep  : 
Yea,  all  that's  lovable,  below,  above, 

That  let  me  love  by  heart,  by  heart,  because 
(Free  from  the  penal  pressure  of  the  laws) 
I  find  it  fair. 


REMONSTRANCE.  8; 

"  The  tears  I  weep  by  day  and  bitter  night, 
Opinion  !  for  thy  sole  salt  vintage  fall. 

— As  morn  by  morn  I  rise  with  fresh  delight, 
Time  through  my  casement  cheerily  doth  call 
'  Nature  is  new,'  'tis  birthday  every  day, 
Come  feast  with  me,  let  no  man  say  me  nay, 
Whate'er  befall.' 

"  So  fare  I  forth  to  feast  :  I  sit  beside 
Some  brother  bright  :  but,  ere  good-morrow's  passed, 

Burly  Opinion  wedging  in  hath  cried 
Thou  shalt  not  sit  by  us,  to  break  thy  fast, 

Save  to  our  Rubric  thou  subscribe  and  swear — 
Religion  hath  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair  : 
She  's  Saxon,  all.' 

"  Then,  hard  a-hungered  for  my  brother's  grace 
Till  well-nigh  fain  to  swear  his  folly  's  true, 

In  sad  dissent  I  turn  my  longing  face 
To  him  that  sits  on  the  left  :  '  Brother, — with  you  ?  ' 

— '  Nay,  not  with  me,  save  thou  subscribe  and  sweat 
Religion  hath  black  eyes  and  raven  hair  : 
Nought  else  is  true.' 

"  Debarred  of  banquets  that  my  heart  could  make 
With  every  man  on  every  day  of  life, 

I  homeward  turn,  my  fires  of  pain  to  slake 
In  deep  endearments  of  a  worshipped  wife. 

'  I  love  thee  well,  dear  Love,'  quoth  she,  '  and  yet 
Would  that  thy  creed  with  mine  completely  met, 
As  one,  not  two.' 

"Assassin  !  Thief!  Opinion,  'tis  thy  work. 
By  Church,  by  throne,  by  hearth,  by  every  good 

That's  in  the  Town  of  Time,  I  see  thee  lurk, 
And  e'er  some  shadow  stays  where  thou  hast  stood. 


88  STREET-CRIES. 

Thou  hand'st  sweet  Socrates  his  hemlock  sour ; 
Thou  sav'st  Barabbas  in  that  hideous  hour, 
And  stabb'st  the  good 

"  Deliverer  Christ ;  thou  rack'st  the  souls  of  men  ; 
Thou  tossest  girls  to  lions  and  boys  to  names  ; 

Thou  hew'st  Crusader  down  by  Saracen  ; 
Thou  buildest  closets  full  of  secret  shames  ; 
Indifferent  cruel,  thou  dost  blow  the  blaze 
Round  Ridley  or  Servetus  ;  all  thy  days 
Smell  scorched  ;  I  would 

i  r 

" — Thou  base-born  Accident  of  time  and  place- 
Bigot  Pretender  unto  Judgment's  throne — 

Bastard,  that  claimest  with  a  cunning  face 
Those  rights  the  true,  true  Son  of  Man  doth  own 
By  Love's  authority — thou  Rebel  cold 
At  head  of  civil  wars  and  quarrels  old — • 
Thou  Knife  on  a  throne — 

"  I  would  thou  left'st  me  free,  to  live  with  love, 
And  faith,  that  through  the  love  of  love  doth  find 

My  Lord's  dear  presence  in  the  stars  above, 
The  clods  below,  the  flesh  without,  the  mind 
Within,  the  bread,  the  tear,  the  smile. 
Opinion,  damned  Intriguer,  gray  with  guile, 
Let  me  alone." 


BALTIMORE,  1878-9 


HOW  LOVE  LOOKED   FOR    HELL.  89 

II. 

THE   SHIP   OF   EARTH. 

"  THOU  Ship  of  Earth,  with  Death,  and  Birth,  and  Life,  and 

Sex  aboard, 

And  fires  of  Desires  burning  hotly  in  the  hold, 
I  fear  thee,  O  !  I  fear  thee,  for  I  hear  the  tongue  and  sword 
At  battle  on  the  deck,  and  the  wild  mutineers  are  bold ! 

"  The  dewdrop  morn  may  fall  from  off  the  petal  of  the  sky, 
But  all  the  deck  is  wet  with  blood  and  stains  the  crystal 

red. 
A  pilot,  GOD,  a  pilot!  for  the  helm  is  left  awry, 

And   the  best  sailors  in  the  ship  lie  there  among  the 
dead ! " 

PRATTVILLB,  ALABAMA,  1868. 

III. 
HOW   LOVE   LOOKED   FOR   HELL. 

"  To  heal  his  heart  of  long-time  pain 

One  day  Prince  Love  for  to  travel  was  fain 

With  Ministers  Mind  and  Sense. 
'  Now  what  to  thee  most  strange  may  be  ? ' 
Quoth  Mind  and  Sense.     '  All  things  above, 
One  curious  thing  I  first  would  see — 
Hell,'  quoth  Love. 

"  Then  Mind^jode  in  and  Sense  rode  out: 
They  searched  the  ways  of  man  about. 
First  frightfully  groaneth  Sense. 


i 


90  STREET-CRIES. 

'  'Tis  here,  'tis  here,'  and  spurreth  in  fear 
To  the  top  of  the  hill  that  hangeth  above 
And  plucketh  the  Prince  :   '  Come,  come,  'tis  here— 
'  Where  ?  '  quoth  Love — 

'•'• '  Not  far,  not  far,'  said  shivering  Sense 
As  they  rode  on.     '  A  short  way  hence, 

— But  seventy  paces  hence  : 
Look,  King,  dost  see  where  suddenly 
This  road  doth  dip  from  the  height  above  ? 
Cold  blew  a  mouldy  wind  by  me ' 

('  Cold  ? '  quoth  Love) 

"  '  As  I  rode  down,  and  the  River  was  black, 
And  yon-side,  lo  !  an  endless  wrack 

And  rabble  of  souls,'  sighed  Sense, 
'  Their  eyes  upturned  and  begged  and  burned 
In  brimstone  lakes,  and  a  Hand  above 
Beat  back  the  hands  that  upward  yearned — ' 
'  Nay  !  '  quoth  Love — 

"  '  Yea,  yea,  sweet  Prince  ;  thyself  shalt  see, 
Wilt  thou  but  down  this  slope  with  me  ; 

'Tis  palpable,'  whispered  Sense. 
— At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  living  rill 
Shone,  and  the  lilies  shone  white  above  ; 
'But  now  'twas  black,  'twas  a  river,  this  rill,' 
('  Black  ?  '  quoth  Love) 

*  '  Ay,  black,  but  lo  !  the  lilies  grow, 
And  yon-side  where  was  woe,  was  woe, 

— Where  the  rabble  of  souls,'  cried  Sense, 
'  Did  shrivel  and  turn  and  beg  and  burn, 
Thrust  back  in  the  brimstone  from  above — 
Is  banked  of  violet,  rose,  and  fern  : ' 
'  How  ?  '  quoth  Love  : 


HOW  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELL.       Ql 

"  '  For  lakes  of  pain,  yon  pleasant  plain 
Of  woods  and  grass  and  yellow  grain 

Doth  ravish  the  soul  and  sense  : 
And  never  a  sigh  beneath  the  sky, 
And  folk  that  smile  and  gaze  above — ' 
'  But  saw'st  thou  here,  with  thine  own  eye, 
Hell  ? '  quoth  Love. 

"  '  I  saw  true  hell  with  mine  own  eye, 
True  hell,  or  light  hath  told  a  lie, 

True,  verily,'  quoth  stout  Sense. 
Then  Love  rode  round  and  searched  the  ground, 
The  caves  below,  the  hills  above  ; 
'  But  I  cannot  find  where  thou  hast  found 
Hell,'  quoth  Love. 

"  There,  while  they  stood  in  a  green  wood 
And  marvelled  still  on  111  and  Good, 

Came  suddenly  Minister  Mind. 
'In  the  heart  of  sin  doth  hell  begin  : 
'Tis  not  below,  'tis  not  above, 
It  lieth  within,  it  lieth  within  : ' 
('  Where  ?  '  quoth  Love) 

'•'  '  I  saw  a  man  sit  by  a  corse  ; 

Hell 's  in  the  murderer's  breast :  remorse  ! 

Thus  clamored  his  mind  to  his  mind  : 
Not  fleshly  dole  is  the  sinner's  goal, 
Hell's  not  below,  nor  yet  above, 
'Tis  fixed  in  the  ever-damned  soul — ' 
'  Fixed  ?  '  quoth  Love — 

"  *  Fixed  :  follow  me,  would'st  thou  but  see  : 
He  weepeth  under  yon  willow  tree, 

Fast  chained  to  his  corse,'  quoth  Mind. 


92  STREET-CRIES. 

Full  soon  they  passed,  for  they  rode  fast, 
Where  the  piteous  willow  bent  above. 
'  Now  shall  I  see  at  last,  at  last, 
Hell,'  quoth  Love. 

"  There  when  they  came  Mind  suffered  shame  s 
'  These  be  the  same  and  not  the  same,' 
A-wondering  whispered  Mind. 
Lo,  face  by  face  two  spirits  pace 
Where  the  blissful  willow  waves  above  : 
One  saith  :  '  Do  me  a  friendly  grace — ' 
('  Grace  ! '  quoth  Love) 

"  '  Read  me  two  Dreams  that  linger  long, 
Dim  as  returns  of  old-time  song 

That  flicker  about  the  mind. 
I  dreamed  (how  deep  in  mortal  sleep  !) 
I  struck  thee  dead,  then  stood  above, 
With  tears  that  none  but  dreamers  weep ; ' 
'  Dreams,'  quoth  Love ; 

"  '  In  dreams,  again,  I  plucked  a  flower 

That  clung  with  pain  and  stung  with  power, 

Yea,  nettled  me,  body  and  mind.' 
'  'Twas  the  nettle  of  sin,  'twas  medicine  ; 
No  need  nor  seed  of  it  here  Above  ; 
In  dreams  of  hate  true  loves  begin.' 
'  True,'  quoth  Love. 

"  '  Now  strange,'  quoth  Sense,  and  '  Strange,'  quoth  Mind, 
'  We  saw  it,  and  yet  'tis  hard  to  find, 

— But  we  saw  it,'  quoth  Sense  and  Mind. 
Stretched  on  the  ground,  beautiful-crowned 
Of  the  piteous  willow  that  wreathed  above, 
But  I  cannot  find  where  ye  have  found 

Hell,'  quoth  Love." 
BALTIMORE,  1878-9. 


TYRANNY.  93 

IV. 

TYRANNY. 

"  SPRING-GERMS,  spring-germs, 
I  charge  you  by  your  life,  go  back  to  death. 
This  glebe  is  sick,  this  wind  is  foul  of  breath. 
Stay  :  feed  the  worms. 

"  Oh  !  every  clod 

Is  faint,  and  falters  from  the  war  of  growth 
And  crumbles  in  a  dreary  dust  of  sloth, 
Unploughed,  untrod. 

"  What  need,  what  need, 
To  hide  with  flowers  the  curse  upon  the  hills, 
Or  sanctify  the  banks  of  sluggish  rills 
Where  vapors  breed  ? 

"  And — if  needs  must — 
Advance,  O  Summer-heats  !  upon  the  land, 
And  bake  the  bloody  mould  to  shards  and  sand 
And  dust. 

"  Before  your  birth, 

Burn  up,  O  Roses  !  with  your  dainty  flame. 
Good  Violets,  sweet  Violets,  hide  shame 
Below  the  earth. 

"  Ye  silent  Mills, 

Reject  the  bitter  kindness  of  the  moss. 
O  Farms  !  protest  if  any  tree  emboss 
The  barren  hills. 


94  STREET-CRIES. 

"  Young  Trade  is  dead, 

And  swart  Work  sullen  sits  m  the  hillside  fern 
And  folds  his  arms  that  find  no  bread  to  earn, 
And  bows  his  head. 

"  Spring-germs,  spring-germs, 
Albeit  the  towns  have  left  you  place  to  play, 
I  charge  you,  sport  not.     Winter  owns  to-day, 
Stay  :  feed  the  worms." 

PRATTVILLK,  ALABAMA,  1868. 


V. 

LIFE  AND   SONG. 

"  IF  life  were  caught  by  a  clarionet, 

And  a  wild  heart,  throbbing  in  the  reed, 
Should  thrill  its  joy  and  trill  its  fret, 
And  utter  its  heart  in  every  deed, 

"Then  would  this  breathing  clarionet 

Type  what  the  poet  fain  would  be  ; 
For  none  o'  the  singers  ever  yet 
Has  wholly  lived  his  minstrelsy, 

s 
"  Or  clearly  sung  his  true,  true  thought, 

Or  utterly  bodied  forth  his  life, 
Or  out  of  life  and  song  has  wrought 
The  perfect  one  of  man  and  wife  ; 

"  Or  lived  and  sung,  that  Life  and  Song 

Might  each  express  the  other's  all, 
Careless  if  life  or  art  were  long 

Since  both  were  one,  to  stand  or  fall: 


TO   RICHARD   WAGNER.  95 

"  So  that  the  wonder  struck  the  crowd, 

Who  shouted  it  about  the  land  : 
His  song  was  only  living  aloud, 
His  work,  a  singing  with  his  Ttand  I " 

1868. 

VI. 
TO   RICHARD   WAGNER. 

"  I  SAW  a  sky  of  stars  that  rolled  in  grime. 

All  glory  twinkled  through  some  sweat  of  fight, 
From  each  tall  chimney  of  the  roaring  time 

That  shot  his  fire  far  up  the  sooty  night 
Mixt  fuels — Labor's  Right  and  Labor's  Crime — > 

Sent  upward  throb  on  throb  of  scarlet  light 
Till  huge  hot  blushes  in  the  heavens  blent 

With  golden  hues  of  Trade's  high  firmament 

"  Fierce  burned  the  furnaces  ;  yet  all  seemed  well, 

Hope  dreamed  rich  music  in  the  rattling  mills. 
'  Ye  foundries,  ye  shall  cast  my  church  a  bell,' 

Loud  cried  the  Future  from  the  farthest  hills  : 
'  Ye  groaning  forces,  crack  me  every  shell 

Of  customs,  old  constraints,  and  narrow  ills ; 
Thou,  lithe  Invention,  wake  and  pry  and  guess, 

Till  thy  deft  mind  invents  me  Happiness.' 

"  And  I  beheld  high  scaffoldings  of  creeds 

Crumbling  from  round  Religion's  perfect  Fane  : 
And  a  vast  noise  of  rights,  wrongs,  powers,  needs, 

— Cries  of  new  Faiths  that  called  '  This  Way  is  plain,' 
— Grindings  of  upper  against  lower  greeds — 

— Fond  sighs  for  old  things,  shouts  for  new, — did  reign 
Below  that  stream  of  golden  fire  that  broke, 

Mottled  with  red,  above  the  seas  of  smoke. 


96  STREET- CRIES. 

"  Hark  1    Gay  fanfares  from  halls  of  old  Romance 

Strike  through  the  clouds  of  clamor  :  who  be  these 
That,  paired  in  rich  processional,  advance 

From  darkness  o'er  the  murk  mad  factories 
Into  yon  flaming  road,  and  sink,  strange  Ministrants  1 

Sheer  down  to  earth,  with  many  minstrelsies 
And  motions  fine,  and  mix  about  the  scene 

And  fill  the  Time  with  forms  of  ancient  mien  ? 

"  Bright  ladies  and  brave  knights  of  Fatherland  ; 

Sad  mariners,  no  harbor  e'er  may  hold, 
A  swan  soft  floating  tow'rds  a  magic  strand ; 

Dim  ghosts,  of  earth,  air,  water,  fire,  steel,  gold, 
Wind,  grief,  and  love  ;  a  lewd  and  lurking  band 

Of  Powers — dark  Conspiracy,  Cunning  cold, 

Gray  Sorcery  ;  magic  cloaks  and  rings  and  rods  ; 

Valkyries,  heroes,  Rhinemaids,  giants,  gods  I 

******** 

"  O  Wagner,  westward  bring  thy  heavenly  art, 

No  trifler  thou  :  Siegfried  and  Wotan  be 
Names  for  big  ballads  of  the  modern  heart. 

Thine  ears  hear  deeper  than  thine  eyes  can  see. 
Voice  of  the  monstrous  mill,  the  shouting  mart, 

Not  less  of  airy  cloud  and  wave  and  tree, 
Thou,  thou,  if  even  to  thyself  unknown, 

Hast  power  to  say  the  Time  in  terms  of  tone." 

1877. 


A  SONG  OF  LOVE. 


VII.  V 

A  SONG  OF  LOVE. 

"HEY,  rose,  just  born 

Twin  to  a  thorn  ; 
Was't  so  with  you,  O  Love  and  Scorn? 

"  Sweet  eyes  that  smiled, 

Now  wet  and  wild  ; 
O  Eye  and  Tear — mother  and  child. 

"  Well :  Love  and  Pain 

Be  kinsfolk  twain  : 

Yet  would,  Oh  would  I  could  love  again." 
I 


08  TO  BEETHOVEN* 


TO   BEETHOVEN. 

IN  o'er-strict  calyx  lingering, 

Lay  music's  bud  too  long  unblown, 

Till  thou,  Beethoven,  breathed  the  spring : 
Then  bloomed  the  perfect  rose  of  tone. 

0  Psalmist  of  the  weak,  the  strong, 
O  Troubadour  of  love  and  strife, 

Co-Litanist  of  right  and  wrong, 
Sole  Hymner  of  the  whole  of  life, 

1  know  not  how,  I  care  not  why, — 
Thy  music  sets  my  world  at  ease, 

And  melts  my  passion's  mortal  cry 
In  satisfying  symphonies. 

It  soothes  my  accusations  sour 

'Gainst  thoughts  that  fray  the  restless  soul 
The  stain  of  death  ;  the  pain  of  power  ; 

The  lack  of  love  'twixt  part  and  whole ; 


The  yea-nay  of  Freewill  and  Fate, 
Whereof  both  cannot  be,  yet  are  ; 

The  praise  a  poet  wins  too  late 
Who  starves  from  earth  into  a  star  ; 

The  lies  that  serve  great  parties  well, 

While  truths  but  give  their  Christ  a  cross; 

The  loves  that  send  warm  souls  to  hell, 
While  cold-blood  neuters  take  no  loss ; 


TO   BEETHOVEN.  99 

Th'  indifferent  smile  that  nature's  grace 

On  Jesus,  Judas,  pours  alike  ; 
Th'  indifferent  frown  on  nature's  face 

When  luminous  lightnings  strangely  strike 

The  sailor  praying  on  his  knees 

And  spare  his  mate  that 's  cursing  God ; 

How  babes  and  widows  starve  and  freeze, 
Yet  Nature  will  not  stir  a  clod  ; 


Why  Nature  blinds  us  in  each  act 
Yet  makes  no  law  in  mercy  bend, 

No  pitfall  from  our  feet  retract, 
No  storm  cry  out  Take  shelter,  friends 

Why  snakes  that  crawl  the  earth  should  ply 
Rattles,  that  whoso  hears  may  shun, 

While  serpent  lightnings  in  the  sky, 
But  rattle  when  the  deed  is  done ; 

How  truth  can  e'er  be  good  for  them 
That  have  not  eyes  to  bear  its  strength, 

And  yet  how  stern  our  lights  condemn 
Delays  that  lend  the  darkness  length  ; 

To  know  all  things,  save  knowingness  ; 

To  grasp,  yet  loosen,  feeling's  rein  ; 
To  waste  no  manhood  on  success  ; 

To  look  with  pleasure  upon  pain  ; 

Though  teased  by  small  mixt  social  claims, 

To  lose  no  large  simplicity, 
And  midst  of  clear-seen  crimes  and  shames 

To  move  with  manly  purity  ; 


100  TO  BEETHOVEN. 

To  hold,  with  keen,  yet  loving  eyes, 
Art's  realm  from  Cleverness  apart. 

To  know  the  Clever  good  and  wise, 
Yet  haunt  the  lonesome  heights  of  Art ; 

0  Psalmist  of  the  weak,  the  strong, 
O  Troubadour  of  love  and  strife, 

Co-Litanist  of  right  and  wrong, 
Sole  Hymner  of  the  whole  of  life, 

1  know  not  how,  I  care  not  why, 
Thy  music  brings  this  broil  at  ease, 

And  melts  my  passion's  mortal  cry 
In  satisfying  symphonies. 

Yea,  it  forgives  me  all  my  sins, 

Fits  life  to  love  like  rhyme  to  rhyme, 

And  tunes  the  task  each  day  begins 
By  the  last  trumpet-note  of  Time. 

1876-7. 


2ln    §vau   ^annette    galMiterbadj.     101 


5ltt 

W13  bu  im  <SaaI  mil  beiner  fjimmiifdjen  $unft 

SBeetljoDen  jeigft,  unb  fetnem  SBiKen  nac^ 
9Jiit  ben  sefjn  gingcrn  fiifjrft  ber  Seute  ©tmft, 
"i9en  fagen  tua§  ber  9ftetfter  fpra^. 
btt^  an,  tcf)  fe^',  bafe  nid)t  cittern 

2)u  fi^eft :  iefet  fyerab  bie  Stone  gte^n 
53eett)ot)en§  ©eift :  er  ftefyt  bet  bir,  ganj  rein : 

§ur  btclj  mil  SSaterS  ©tolj  fetn'  $ugen  glii^n : 
@t  fagt,  ,,;3d)  ^orte  bid)  au§  C)intmeI§Iuft, 

©ie  fommt  ia  nii^er,  wo  cin  $unftler  fpielt: 
9JZetn  i?inb  (id)  fngte)  mid)  sur  Srbe  ruft: 

Set/  weU  mein  5Irm  fetn  i?inb  im  SeBen  ^iclt, 
©ott  ^at  ntir  bid)  nad)  meinem  Sob  gegeben, 

^iannette,  2od)ter !  bid),  mein  3toeite§  Seben  1  * 

Baltimore,  1878. 


IO2  TO   NANNETTE   FALK-AUERBACH. 


TO   NANNETTE   FALK-AUERBACH. 

OFT  as  I  hear  thee,  wrapt  in  heavenly  art, 
The  massive  message  of  Beethoven  tell 
With  thy  ten  fingers  to  the  people's  heart 

A 

As  if  ten  tongues  told  news  of  heaven  and  hell, — *- 
Gazing  on  thee,  I  mark  that  not  alone, 

Ah,  not  alone,  thou  sittest :  there,  by  thee, 
Beethoven's  self,  dear  living  lord  of  tone,    * 
Doth  stand  and  smile  upon  thy  mastery.  * 
Full  fain  and  fatherly  his  great  eyes  glow  :c 

He  says,  "  From  Heaven,  my  child,  I  heard  thee  call 
(For,  where  an  artist  plays,  the  sky  is  low/:     £. 
Yea,  since  my  lonesome  life  did  lack  love's  all, 

In  death,  God  gives  me  thee  :  thus,  quit  of  pain,  / 
Daughter,  Nannette  !  in  thee  I  live  again." 

</ 
BALTIMORE,  18781 


TO  OUR  MOCKING-BIRD.  103 


TO   OUR   MOCKING-BIRD. 

DIED   OF   A    CAT,   MAY,    1878. 
I. 

TRILLETS  of  humor, — shrewdest  whistle-wit, — 
Contralto  cadences  of  grave  desire 
Such  as  from  off  the  passionate  Indian  pyre 
Drift  down  through  sandal-odored  flames  that  split 
About  the  slim  young  widow  who  doth  sit 
And  sing  above, — midnights  of  tone  entire, — 
Tissues  of  moonlight  shot  with  songs  of  fire  ; — 
Bright  drops  of  tune,  from  oceans  infinite 
Of  melody,  sipped  off  the  thin-edged  wave 
And  trickling  down  the  beak, — discourses  brave 
Of  serious  matter  that  no  man  may  guess, — 
Good-fellow  greetings,  cries  of  light  distress — 
All  these  but  now  within  the  house  we  heard  : 
O  Death,  wast  thou  too  deaf  to  hear  the  bird  ? 

II. 

Ah  me,  though  never  an  ear  for  song,  thou  hast 
A  tireless  tooth  for  songsters  :  thus  of  late 
Thou  earnest,  Death,  thou  Cat !  and  leap'st  my  gate, 

And,  long  ere  Love  could  follow,  thou  hadst  passed 

Within  and  snatched  away,  how  fast,  how  fast, 
My  bird — wit,  songs,  and  all — thy  richest  freight 
Since  that  fell  time  when  in  some  wink  of  fate 

Thy  yellow  claws  unsheathed  and  stretched,  ,and  cast 


IO4  TO  OUR  MOCKING-BIRD. 

Sharp  hold  on  Keats,  and  dragged  him  slow  away, 
And  harried  him  with  hope  and  horrid  play — 
Ay,  him,  the  world's  best  wood-bird,  wise  with  song — 
Till  thou  hadst  wrought  thine  own  last  mortal  wrong. 
'Twas  wrong !  'twas  wrong  !  I  care  not,  wrong'' s  the  word- 
To  munch  our  Keats  and  crunch  our  mocking-bird. 


III. 


Nay,  Bird  ;  my  grief  gainsays  the  Lord's  best  right. 

The  Lord  was  fain,  at  some  late  festal  time, 

That  Keats  should  set  all  Heaven's  woods  in  rhyme, 
And  thou  in  bird-notes.     Lo,  this  tearful  night, 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  fresh  from  death's  despite, 

Perched  in  a  palm-grove,  wild  with  pantomime, 

O'er  blissful  companies  couched  in  shady  thyme, 

— Methinks  I  hear  thy  silver  whistlings  bright 
Mix  with  the  mighty  discourse  of  the  wise, 

Till  broad  Beethoven,  deaf  no  more,  and  Keats, 
'Midst  of  much  talk,  uplift  their  smiling  eyes, 

And  mark  the  music  of  thy  wood-conceits, 

And  halfway  pause  on  some  large,  courteous  word, 
And  call  thee  "Brother,"  O  thou  heavenly  Bird  I 


BALTIMORE,  1878. 


THE  DOVE.  IDS 


THE  DOVE. 

IF  haply  thou,  O  Desdemona  Morn, 

Shouldst  call  along  the  curving  sphere,  "  Remain, 
Dear  Night,  sweet  Moor  ;  nay,  leave  me  not  in  scorn  !  " 

With  soft  halloos  of  heavenly  love  and  pain  ;  — 

Shouldst  thou,  O  Spring  !  a-cower  in  coverts  dark, 
'Gainst  proud  supplanting  Summer  sing  thy  plea, 

And  move  the  mighty  woods  through  mailed  bark 
Till  mortal  heart-break  throbbed  in  every  tree  ;  — 


Or  (grievous  if  that  may  be^a  o'er-soon  !), 
If  thou,  my  Heart,  long  holden  from  thy  Sweet, 

Shouldst  knock  Death's  door  with  mellow  shocks  of  tune, 
Sad  inquiry  to  make  —  When  may  we  meet? 

Nay,  if  ye  three,  O  Morn  !  O  Spring  !  O  Heart  1 
Should  chant  grave  unisons  of  grief  and  love  ; 

Ye  could  not  mourn  with  more  melodious  art 
Than  daily  doth  yon  dim  sequestered  dove. 

CHADD'S  FORD,  PENNSYLVANIA,  1877. 


IOC  TO ,   WITH  A  ROSE. 


TO ,  WITH  A  ROSE. 

I  ASKED  my  heart  to  say 

Some  word  whose  worth  my  love's  devoir  might  pay 
Upon  my  Lady's  natal  day. 

Then  said  my  heart  to  me  : 

Learn  from  the  rhyme  that  now  shall  come  to  thee 
What  fits  thy  Love  most  lovingly. 

This  gift  that  learning  shows  ; 
For,  as  a  rhyme  unto  its  rhyme-twin  goes, 
I  send  a  rose  unto  a  Rose. 

PHILADELPHIA,  1876. 


ON  HUNTINGDON'S  "MIRANDA."         107 


ON  HUNTINGDON'S  "  MIRANDA.' 

THE  storm  hath  blown  thee  a  lover,  sweet, 
And  laid  him  kneeling  at  thy  feet. 
But, — guerdon  rich  for  favor  rare  ! 
The  wind  hath  all  thy  holy  hair 
To  kiss  and  to  sing  through  and  to  flare 
Like  torch-flames  in  the  passionate  air, 
About  thee,  O  Miranda. 

Eyes  in  a  blaze,  eyes  in  a  daze, 
Bold  with  love,  cold  with  amaze, 
Chaste-thrilling  eyes,  fast-filling  eyes 
With  daintiest  tears  of  love's  surprise, 
Ye  draw  my  soul  unto  your  blue 
As  warm  skies  draw  the  exhaling  dew, 
Divine  eyes  of  Miranda. 

And  if  I  were  yon  stolid  stone, 
Thy  tender  arm  doth  lean  upon, 
Thy  touch  would  turn  me  to  a  heart, 
And  I  would  palpitate  and  start, 
— Content,  when  thou  wert  gone,  to  be 
A  dumb  rock  by  the  lonesome  sea 
Forever,  O  Miranda. 

BALTIMORE,  1874. 


108      ODE  TO  THE  JOHNS  HOPKINS   UNIVERSITY 


ODE  TO  THE  JOHNS  HOPKINS 
UNIVERSITY. 

READ    ON    THE    FOURTH    COMMEMORATION    DAY, 
FEBRUARY,  l88o. 

How  tall  among  her  sisters,  and  how  fair, — 
How  grave  beyond  her  youth,  yet  debonair 
As  dawn,  'mid  wrinkled  Matres  of  old  lands 
Our  youngest  Alma  Mater  modest  stands  ! 
In  four  brief  cycles  round  the  punctual  sun 
Has  she,  old  Learning's  latest  daughter,  won 
This  grace,  this  stature,  and  this  fruitful  fame. 

Howbeit  she  was  born 

Unnoised  as  any  stealing  summer  morn. 
From  far  the  sages  saw,  from  far  they  came 
And  ministered  to  her, 
Led  by  the  soaring-genius'd  Sylvester 
That,  earlier,  loosed  the  knot  great  Newton  tied, 
And  flung  the  door  of  Fame's  locked  temple  wide. 
As  favorable  fairies  thronged  of  old  and  blessed 
The  cradled  princess  with  their  several  best, 
So,  gifts  and  dowers  meet 
To  lay  at  Wisdom's  feet, 
These  liberal  masters  largely  brought — 
Dear  diamonds  of  their  long-compressed  thought, 
Rich  stones  from  out  the  labyrinthine  cave 
Of  research,  pearls  from  Time's  profoundest  wave 


ODE  TO   THE  JOHNS   HOPKINS   UNIVERSITY. 

And  many  a  jewel  brave,  of  brilliant  ray, 

Dug  in  the  far  obscure  Cathay 

Of  meditation  deep — 
With  flowers,  of  such  as  keep 
Their  fragrant  tissues  and  their  heavenly  hues 
Fresh-bathed  forever  in  eternal  dews — 

The  violet  with  her  low-drooped  eye, 

For  learned  modesty, — 

The  student  snow-drop,  that  doth  hang  and  pore 
Upon  the  earth,  like  Science,  evermore, 
And  underneath  the  clod  doth  grope  and  grope, — 

The  astronomer  heliotrope, 
That  watches  heaven  with  a  constant  eye, — 
The  daring  crocus,  unafraid  to  try 
(When  Nature  calls)  the  February  snows, — 

And  patience'  perfect  rose. 

Thus  sped  with  helps  of  love  and  toil  and  thought, 
Thus  forwarded  of  faith,  with  hope  thus  fraught, 
In  four  brief  cycles  round  the  stringent  sun 
This  youngest  sister  hath  her  stature  won. 

Nay,  why  regard 

The  passing  of  the  years  ?     Nor  made,  nor  marr'd, 
By  help  or  hindrance  of  slow  Time  was  she  : 
O'er  this  fair  growth  Time  had  no  mastery  : 
So  quick  she  bloomed,  she  seemed  to  bloom  at  birth, 
As  Eve  from  Adam,  or  as  he  from  earth. 
Superb  o'er  slow  increase  of  day  on  day, 
Complete  as  Pallas  she  began  her  way  ; 
Yet  not  from  Jove's  unwrinkled  forehead  sprung, 
But  long-time  dreamed,  and  out  of  trouble  wrung, 
Fore-seen,  wise-plann'd,  pure  child  of  thought  and  pain, 
Leapt  our  Minerva  from  a  mortal  brain. 

And  here,  O  finer  Pallas,  long  remain, — 
Sit  on  these  Maryland  hills,  and  fix  thy  reign, 


1 10     ODE  TO   THE  JOHNS   HOPKINS   UNIVERSITY. 

And  frame  a  fairer  Athens  than  of  yore 

In  these  blest  bounds  of  Baltimore, — 

Here,  where  the  climates  meet 
That  each  may  make  the  other's  lack  complete, — 
Where  Florida's  soft  Favonian  airs  beguile 
The  nipping  North, — where  nature's  powers  smile, — 
Where  Chesapeake  holds  frankly  forth  her  hands 
Spread  wide  with  invitation  to  all  lands, — 
Where  now  the  eager  people  yearn  to  find 
The  organizing  hand  that  fast  may  bind 
Loose  straws  of  aimless  aspiration  fain 

In  sheaves  of  serviceable  grain, — 

Here,  old  and  new  in  one, 
Through  nobler  cycles  round  a  richer  sun 

O'er-rule  our  modern  ways, 
O  blest  Minerva  of  these  larger  days  ! 
Call  here  thy  congress  of  the  great,  the  wise, 
The  hearing  ears,  the  seeing  eyes, — 
Enrich  us  out  of  every  farthest  clime, — 
Yea,  make  all  ages  native  to  our  time, 

Till  thou  the  freedom  of  the  city  grant 

To  each  most  antique  habitant 

Of  Fame, — 

Bring  Shakspere  back,  a  man  and  not  a  name,— 
Let  every  player  that  shall  mimic  us 
In  audience  see  old  godlike  ./Eschylus, — 
Bring  Homer,  Dante,  Plato,  Socrates, — 
Bring  Virgil  from  the  visionary  seas 
Of  old  romance, — bring  Milton,  no  more  blind,— 
Bring  large  Lucretius,  with  unmaniac  mind, — 
Bring  all  gold  hearts  and  high  resolved  wills 
To  be  with  us  about  these  happy  hills, — 

Bring  old  Renown 
To  walk  familiar  citizen  of  the  town,— 


ODE  TO  THE   JOHNS   HOPKINS   UNIVERSITY.      Ill 

^,  -Bring  Tolerance,  that  can  kiss  and  disagree, — 
Bring  Virtue,  Honor,  Truth,  and  Loyalty, — 
Bring  Faith  that  sees  with  undissembling  eyes, — 
Bring  all  large  Loves  and  heavenly  Charities, — 
Till  man  seem  less  a  riddle  vnto  man 
And  fair  Utopia  less  Utopian, 
And  many  peoples  call  from  shor?  to  shore, 
The  world  has  bloomed  again,  at  Baltimore! 

BALTIMORE,  1880. 


112  TO  DR.   THOMAS  SHEARER. 


TO   DR.   THOMAS   SHEARER. 

PRESENTING  A  PORTRAIT-BUST  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

SINCE  you,  rare  friend  !  have  tied  my  living  tongue 
With  thanks  more  large  than  man  e'er  said  or  sung, 

So  let  the  dumbness  of  this  image  be 
My  eloquence,  and  still  interpret  me. 

BALTIMORE,  1880. 


MARTHA   WASHINGTON.  11$ 


MARTHA  WASHINGTON. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE   "MARTHA  WASHINGTON  COURT 
JOURNAL." 

DOWN  cold  snow-stretches  of  our  bitter  time, 

When  windy  shams  and  the  rain-mocking  sleet 
Of  Trade  have  cased  us  in  such  icy  rime 

That  hearts  are  scarcely  hot  enough  to  beat, 
Thy  fame,  O  Lady  of  the  lofty  eyes, 

Doth  fall  along  the  age,  like  as  a  lane 
Of  Spring,  in  whose  most  generous  boundaries 

Full  many  a  frozen  virtue  warms  again. 
To-day  I  saw  the  pale  much-burdened  form 

Of  Charity  come  limping  o'er  the  line, 
And  straighten  from  the  bending  of  the  storm 

And  flush  with  stirrings  of  new  strength  divine, 
Such  influence  and  sweet  gracious  impulse  came 
Out  of  the  beams  of  thine  immortal  name  t 

BALTIMORE,  February  aad,  1875. 


114  PSALM  OF  THE  WEST. 


PSALM  OF  THE  WEST. 

LAND  of  the  willful  gospel,  thou  worst  and  thou  best ; 
Tall  Adam  of  lands,  new-made  of  the  dust  of  the  West ; 
Thou  wroughtest  alone  in  the  Garden  of  God,  unblest 
Till  He  fashioned  lithe  Freedom  to  lie  for  thine  Eve  on  thy 

breast — 

Till  out  of  thy  heart's  dear  neighborhood,  out  of  thy  side, 
He  fashioned  an  intimate  Sweet  one  and  brought  thee  a 

Bride. 
Cry  hail !  nor  bewail  that  the  wound  of  her  coming  was 

wide. 
Lo,  Freedom  reached  forth  where  the    world  as  an  apple 

hung  red ; 

Let  us  taste  the  whole  radiant  round  of  it,  gayly  she  said  : 
If  we  die,  at  the  worst  we  shall  lie  as  the  first  of  the  dead. 
Knowledge  of  Good  and  of  111,  O  Land !  she  hath  given 

thee  ; 
Perilous  godhoods  of  choosing  have  rent  thee  and  riven 

thee; 

Will's  high  adoring  to  Ill's  low  exploring  hath  driven  thee — 
Freedom,   thy  Wife,  hath  uplifted    thy  life  and  clean 

shriven  thee ! 

Her  shalt  thou  clasp  for  a  balm  to  the  scars  of  thy  breast, 
Her  shalt  thou  kiss  for  a  calm  to  thy  wars  of  unrest, 
Her  shalt  extol   in  the  psalm  of  the  soul  of  the  West. 
For  Weakness,  in  freedom,  grows  stronger  than  Strength 

with  a  chain  ; 

And  Error,  in  freedom,  will  come  to  lamenting  his  stain, 
Till  freely  repenting  he  whiten  his  spirit  again  ; 


PSALM    OF   THE    WEST.  Ilj 

And  Friendship,  in  freedom,  will  blot  out  the  bounding  of 

race  ; 
And  straight  Law,  in  freedom,  will  curve  to  the  rounding  of 

grace  ; 

And  Fashion,  in  freedom,  will  die  of  the  lie  in  her  face  ; 
And  Desire  flame  white  on  the  sense  as  a  fire  on  a  height, 
And  Sex  flame  white  in  the  soul  as  a  star  in  the  night, 
And  Marriage  plight  sense  unto  soul  as  the  two-colored 

light 

Of  the  fire  and  the  star  shines  one  with  a  duplicate  might; 
And  Science  be  known  as  the  sense  making  love  to  the  All, 
And  Art  be  known  as  the  soul  making  love  to  the  All, 
And  Love  be  known  as  the  marriage  of  man  with  the  All — 
Till  Science  to  knowing  the  Highest  shall  lovingly  turn, 
Till  Art  to  loving  the  Highest  shall  consciously  burn, 
Till  Science  to  Art  as  a  man  to  a  woman  shall  yearn, 

— Then  morn ! 
When  Faith  from  the  wedding  of  Knowing  and  Loving  shall 

purely  be  born, 
And  the  Child  shall  smile  in  the  West,  and  the  West  to  the 

East  give  morn, 

And  the  Time  in  that  ultimate  Prime  shall  forget  old  regret 
ting  and  scorn, 

Yea,  the  stream  of  the  light  shall  give  off  in  a  shimmer  the 
dream  of  the  night  forlorn. 

Once  on  a  time  a  soul 
Too  full  of  his  dole 

In  a  querulous  dream  went  crying  from  pole  to  pole — 
Went  sobbing  and  crying 
For  ever  a  sorrowful  song  of  living  and  dying, 
How  life  "was  the  dropping  and  death  the  drying 
Of  a  Tear  that  fell  in  a  day  when  God  was  sighing. 
And  ever  Time  tossed  him  bitterly  to  and  fro 
As  a  shuttle  inlaying  a  perilous  warp  of  woe 


Il6  PSALM   OF  THE  WEST. 

In  the  woof  of  things  from  terminal  snow  to  snow, 
Till,  lo ! 

Rest. 

And  he  sank  on  the  grass  of  the  earth  as  a  lark  on  its  nest, 
And  he  lay  in  the  midst  of  the  way  from  the  east  to  the  west 
Then  the  East  came  out  from  the  east  and  the  West  from 

the  west, 

And,  behold  !  in  the  gravid  deeps  of  the  lower  dark, 
While,  above,  the  wind  was  fanning  the  dawn  as  a  spark, 
The  East  and  the  West  took  form  as  the  wings  of  a  lark. 
One  wing  was  feathered  with  facts  of  the  uttermost  Past, 
And   one  with  the  dreams  of  a  prophet ;  and  both  sailed 

fast 

And  met  where  the  sorrowful  Soul  on  the  earth  was  cast. 
Then  a  Voice  said  :   Thine,  if  thou  lovest  enough  to  use ; 
But  another  :   To  fly  and  to  sing  is  pain  :  refuse  / 
Then  the  Soul  said  :   Come,  O  my  wings  /  I  cannot  but 

choose. 

And  the  Soul  was  a-tremble  like  as  a  new-born  thing, 
Till  the  spark  of  the  dawn  wrought  a  conscience  in  heart  as 

in  wing, 
Saying,  Thou  art  the  lark  of  the  dawn  ;  it  is  time  to  sing. 

Then  that  artist  began  in  a  lark's  low  circling  to  pass  ; 
And  first  he  sang  at  the  height  of  the  top  of  the  grass 
A  song  of  the  herds  that  are  born  and  die  in  the  mass. 
And  next  he  sang  a  celestial-passionate  round 
At  the  height  of  the  lips  of  a  woman  above  the  ground, 
How  Love  was  a  fair  true  Lady,  and  Death  a  wild  hound, 
And  she  called,  and  he  licked  her  hand  and  with  girdle 

was  bound. 

And  then  with  a  universe-love  he  was  hot  in  the  wings, 
And  the  sun  stretched  beams  to  the  worlds  as  the  shining 

strings 
Of  the  large  hid  harp  that  sounds  when  an  all-lover  sings ; 


PSALM   OF  THE   WEST.  117 

And  the  sky's  blue  traction  prevailed  o'er  the  earth's  in 

might, 
And  the   passion  of  flight  grew  mad  with   the  glory  of 

height 

And  the  uttering  of  song  was  like  to  the  giving  of  light ; 
And  he  learned  that  hearing  and  seeing  wrought   nothing 

alone, 
And   that  music   on   earth  much  light   upon   Heaven  had 

thrown, 

And  he  melted-in  silvery  sunshine  with  silvery  tone  ; 
And  the  spirals  of  music  e'er  higher  and  higher  he  wound 
Till  the  luminous  cinctures  of  melody  up  from  the  ground 
Arose  as  the  shaft  of  a  tapering  tower  of  sound — 
Arose  for  an  unstricken  full-finished  Babel  of  sound. 
But  God  was  not  angry,  nor  ever  confused  his  tonguf, 
For  not  out  of  selfish  nor  impudent  travail  was  wrung 
The  song  of  all  men  and  all  things  that  the  all-lover  sung. 
Then  he  paused  at  the  top  of  his  tower  of  song  on  high, 
And  the  voice  of  the  God  of  the  artist  from  far  in   the 

sky 

Said,  Son,  look  down  :  I  will  cause  that  a  Time  gone  by 
Shall pass ,  and  reveal  his  heart  to  thy  loving  eye. 

Far  spread,  below, 

The  sea  that  fast  hath  locked  in  his  loose  flow 

All  secrets  of  Atlantis'  drowned  woe 

Lay  bound  about  with  night  on  every  hand, 
Save  down  the  eastern  brink  a  shining  band 
Of  day  made  out  a  little  way  from  land. 

Then  from  that  shore  the  wind  upbore  a  cry  : 

Thou  Sea,  thou  Sea  of  Darkness  /  why,  ok  why 

Post  waste  thy  West  in  unthrift  mystery  f 
But  ever  the  idiot  sea-mouths  foam  and  fill, 
And  never  a  wave  doth  good  for  man  or  ill, 
And  Blank  is  king,  and  Nothing  hath  his  will ; 


Il8  PSALM   OF   THE   WEST. 

And  like  as  grim-beaked  pelicans  level  file 
Across  the  sunset  toward  their  nightly  isle 
On  solemn  wings  that  wave  but  seldomwhile, 
So  leanly  sails  the  day  behind  the  day 
To  where  the  Past's  lone  Rock  o'erglooms  the  spray, 
And  down  its  mortal  fissures  sinks  away. 

Master,  Master,  break  this  ban  : 

The  wave  lacks  Thee. 
Oh,  is  it  not  to  widen  man 

Stretches  the  sea  ? 
Oh,  must  the  sea-bird 's  idle  van 

Alone  be  free  ? 

Into  the  Sea  of  the  Dark  doth  creep 

Bjorne's  pallid  sail, 
As  the  face  of  a  walker  in  his  sleep, 

Set  rigid  and  most  pale, 
.   About  the  night  doth  peer  and  peep 

In  a  dream  of  an  ancient  tale. 

Lo,  here  is  made  a  hasty  cry  : 

Land,  land,  upon  the  ivest ! — 
God  save  such  land  !     Go  by,  go  by  : 

Here  may  no  mortal  rest, 
Where  this  waste  hell  of  slate  doth  lie 

And  grind  the  glacier's  breast. 

The  sail  goeth  limp  :  hey,  flap  and  strain  I 
Round  eastward  slanteth  the  mast ; 

As  the  sleep-walker  waked  with  pain, 
White-clothed  in  the  midnight  blast, 

Doth  stare  and  quake,  and  stride  again 
To  houseward  all  aghast. 


PSALM   OF   THE   WEST.  1 19 

Yet  as,  A  ghost !  his  household  cry  : 

He  hath  followed  a  ghost  inflight. 
Let  us  see  the  ghost — his  household  fly 

With  lamps  to  search  the  night — 
So  Norsemen's  sails  run  out  and  try 

The  Sea  of  the  Dark  with  light. 

Stout  Are  Marson,  southward  whirled 

From  out  the  tempest's  hand, 
Doth  skip  the  sloping  of  the  world 

To  Huitramannaland, 
Where  Georgia's  oaks  with  moss-beards  curled 

Wave  by  the  shining  strand, 

And  sway  in  sighs  from  Florida's  Spring 

Or  Carolina's  Palm — 
What  time  the  mocking-bird  doth  bring 

The  woods  his  artist's-balm, 
Singing  the  Song  of  Everything 

Consummate-sweet  and  calm — 

Land  of  large  merciful-hearted  skies, 

Big  bounties,  rich  increase, 
Green  rests  for  Trade's  blood-shotten  eyes, 

For  o'er-beat  brains  surcease, 
For  Love  the  dear  woods'  sympathies, 

For  Grief  the  wise  woods'  peace, 

For  Need  rich  givings  of  hid  powers 

In  hills  and  vales  quick-won, 
For  Greed  large  exemplary  flowers 

That  ne'er  have  toiled  nor  spun, 
For  Heat  fair-tempered  winds  and  showers, 

For  Cold  the  neighbor  sun. 


I2O  PSALM   OF  THE  WEST. 

Land  where  the  Spirits  of  June-Heat 

From  out  their  forest-maze 
Stray  forth  at  eve  with  loitering  feet, 

And  fervent  hymns  upraise 
In  bland  accord  and  passion  sweet 

Along  the  Southern  ways  : — 

"  O  Darkness,  tawny  Twin  whose  Twin  hath  ceased, 

Thou  Odor  from  the  day-flower's  crushing  born, 
Thou  visible  Sigh  out  of  the  mournful  East, 

That  cannot  see  her  lord  again  till  morn  : 
O  Leaves,  with  hollow  palms  uplifted  high 

To  catch  the  stars'  most  sacred  rain  of  light : 
O  pallid  Lily- petals  fain  to  die 

Soul-stung  by  subtle  passion  of  the  night : 
O  short-breath'd  Winds  beneath  the  gracious  moon 

Running  mild  errands  for  mild  violets, 
Or  carrying  sighs  from  the  red  lips  of  June 

What  wavering  way  the  odor-current  sets  : 
O  Stars  wreathed  vinewise  round  yon  heavenly  dells, 

Or  thrust  from  out  the  sky  in  curving  sprays, 
Or  whorled,  or  looped  with  pendent  flower-bells, 

Or  bramble-tangled  in  a  brilliant  maze, 
Or  lying  like  young  lilies  in  a  lake 

About  the  great  white  Lily  of  the  moon, 
Or  drifting  white  from  where  in  heaven  shake 

Star-portraitures  of  apple  trees  in  June, 
Or  lapp'd  as  leaves  of  a  great  rose  of  stars, 

Or  shyly  clambering  up  cloud-lattices, 
Or  trampled  pale  in  the  red  path  of  Mars, 

Or  trim-set  quaint  in  gardeners'-fantasies  : 
O  long  June  Night-sounds  crooned  among  the  leaves; 

O  whispered  confidence  of  Dark  and  Green ; 
O  murmurs  in  old  moss  about  old  eaves ; 

O  tinklings  floating  over  water-sheen." 


PSALM   OF   THE   WEST.  121 

Then  Leif,  bold  son  of  Eric  the  Red, 

To  the  South  of  the  West  doth  flee- 
Past  slaty  Helluland  is  sped, 

Past  Markland's  woody  lea, 
Till  round  about  fair  Vinland's  head., 
Where  Taunton  helps  the  sea, 

The  Norseman  calls,  the  anchor  falls, 

The  mariners  hurry  a-strand  : 
They  wassail  with  fore-drunken  skals 

Where  prophet  wild  grapes  stand  ; 
They  lift  the  Leifsbooth's  hasty  walls 

They  stride  about  the  land — 

New  England,  thee  !  whose  ne'er-spent  wine 

As  blood  doth  stretch  each  vein, 
And  urge  thee,  sinewed  like  thv  vine, 

Through  peril  and  all  pain 
To  grasp  Endeavor's  towering  Pine, 

And,  once  ahold,  remain — 

Land  where  the  strenuous-handed  Wind 

With  sarcasm  of  a  friend 
Doth  smite  the  man  would  lag  behind 

To  frontward  of  his  end  ; 
Yea,  where  the  taunting  fall  and  grind 

Of  Nature's  111  doth  send 

Such  mortal  challenge  of  a  clown 

Rude-thrust  upon  the  soul, 
That  men  but  smile  where  mountains  frown 

Or  scowling  waters  roll, 
And  Nature's  front  of  battle  down 

Do  hurl  from  pole  to  pole. 


122  PSALM   OF   THE   WEST. 

Now  long  the  Sea  of  Darkness  glimmers  low 
With  sails  from  Northland  nickering  to  and  fro — • 
Thorwald,  Karlsefne,  and  those  twin  heirs  of  woe, 

Hellboge  and  Finnge,  in  treasonable  bed 

Slain  by  the  ill-born  child  of  Eric  Red, 

Freydisa  false.  Till,  as  much  time  is  fled, 
Once  more  the  vacant  airs  with  darkness  fill, 
Once  more  the  wave  doth  never  good  nor  ill, 
And  Blank  is  king,  and  Nothing  works  his  will ; 

And  leanly  sails  the  day  behind  the  day 

To  where  the  Past's  lone  Rock  o'erglooms  the  spray, 

And  down  its  mortal  fissures  sinks  away, 
As  when  the  grim-beaked  pelicans  level  file 
Across  the  sunset  to  their  seaward  isle 
On  solemn  wings  that  wave  but  seldomwhile. 

Master,  Master,  poets  sing ; 

The  Time  calls  Thee  ; 
Yon  Sea  binds  hard  on  everything 

Man  longs  to  be  : 
Oh,  shall  the  sea-bird's  aimless  wing 

Alone  move  free  ? 

Santa  Maria,  well  thou  tremblest  down  the  wave, 
Thy  Pinta  far  abow,  thy  Nina  nigh  astern  : 

Columbus  stands  in  the  night  alone,  and,  passing  grave, 
Yearns  o'er  the  sea  as  tones  o'er  under-silence  yearn. 

Heartens  his  heart  as  friend  befriends  his  friend  less  brave, 
Makes  burn  the  faiths  that  cool,  and  cools  the  doubts  that 
burn : — 


"  'Twixt  this  and  dawn,  three  hours  my  soul  will  smite 
With  prickly  seconds,  or  less  tolerably 
With  dull-blade  minutes  flatwise  slapping  me. 


PSALM    OF   THE   WEST.  12$ 

Wait,  Heart !  Time  moves. — Thou  lithe  young  Western 

Night, 

Just-crowned  king,  slow  riding  to  thy  right, 
Would  God  that  I  might  straddle  mutiny 
Calm  as  thou  sitt'st  yon  never-managed  sea, 
Balk'st  with  his  balking,  fliest  with  his  flight, 
Giv'st  supple  to  his  rearings  and  his  falls, 
Nor  dropp'st  one  coronal  star  about  thy  brow 

Whilst  ever  dayward  thou  art  steadfast  drawn ! 
Yea,  would  I  rode  these  mad  contentious  brawls 
No  damage  taking  from  their  If  and  How, 
Nor  no  result  save  galloping  to  my  Dawn  I 

II. 

"  My  Dawn  ?  my  Dawn  ?     How  if  it  never  break? 
How  if  this  West  by  other  Wests  is  pieced, 
And  these  by  vacant  Wests  on  Wests  increased — 

One  Pain  of  Space,  with  hollow  ache  on  ache 

Throbbing  and  ceasing  not  for  Christ's  own  sake  ?— 
Big  perilous  theorem,  hard  for  king  and  priest : 
Pursue  the  West  but  long  enough,  'tis  East  / 

Oh,  if  this  watery  world  no  turning  take  ! 
Oh,  if  for  all  my  logic,  all  my  dreams, 
Provings  of  that  which  is  by  that  which  seems, 

Fears,  hopes,  chills,  heats,  hastes,  patiences,   droughts, 
tears, 

Wife-grievings,  slights  on  love,  embezzled  years, 
Hates,  treaties,  scorns,  upliftings,  loss  and  gain, — 
This  earth,  no  sphere,  be  all  one  sickening  plane  t 

III. 

"  Or,  haply,  how  if  this  contrarious  West, 

That  me  by  turns  hath  starved,  by  turns  hath  fed, 
Embraced,  disgraced,  beat  back,  solicited, 
Have  no  fixed  heart  of  Law  within  his  breast, 


124  PSALM   OF   THE   WEST. 

Or  with  some  different  rhythm  doth  e'er  contest 
Nature  in  the  East  ?     Why,  'tis  but  three  weeks  flew 
I  saw  my  Judas  needle  shake  his  head 

And  flout  the  Pole  that,  east,  he  Lord  confessed  I 
God  !  if  this  West  should  own  some  other  Pole, 
And  with  his  tangled  ways  perplex  my  soul 

Until  the  maze  grow  mortal,  and  I  die 

Where  distraught  Nature  clean  hath  gone  astray, 
On  earth  some  other  wit  than  Time's  at  play, 

Some  other  God  than  mine  above  the  sky ! 


IV. 

"  Now  speaks  mine  other  heart  with  cheerier  seeming  : 
Ho,  Admiral !  tfer-def diking  to  thy  crew 
Against  thyself,  thyself  far  overfew 

To  front  yon  multitudes  of  rebel  scheming  ? 

Come,  ye  wild  twenty  years  of  heavenly  dreaming  ! 
Come,  ye  wild  weeks  since  first  this  canvas  drew 
Out  of  vexed  Palos  ere  the  dawn  was  blue, 

O'er  milky  waves  about  the  bows  full-creaming  ! 

Come  set  me  round  with  many  faithful  spears 
Of  confident  remembrance — how  I  crushed 
Cat-lived  rebellions,  pitfalled  treasons,  hushed 

Scared  husbands'  heart-break  cries  on  distant  wives, 

Made  cowards  blush  at  whining  for  their  lives, 

Watered  my  parching  souls,  and  dried  their  tears. 


V. 


"  Ere  we  Gomera  cleared,  a  coward  cried, 

Turn,  turn  :  here  be  three  caravels  ahead, 
From  Portugal,  to  take  us  :  we  are  dead  ! 
Hold  Westward,  pilot,  calmly  I  replied. 


PSALM   OF   THE   WEST.  12$ 

So  when  the  last  land  down  the  horizon  died, 

Go  back,  go  back  !  they  prayed  :  our  hearts  are  lead.-' 
Friends,  we  are  bound  into  the  West,  I  said. 

Then  passed  the  wreck  of  a  mast  upon  our  side. 

See  (so  they  wept)  God's  Warning !     Admiral,  turn! — 
Steersman,  I  said,  hold  straight  into  the  West. 

Then  down  the  night  we  saw  the  meteor  burn. 
So  do  the  very  heavens  in  fire  protest  : 

Good  Admiral,  put  about  !     O  Spain,  dear  Spain  ! — 

Hold  straight  into  the  West,  I  said  again. 


VI. 

"  Next  drive  we  o'er  the  slimy-weeded  sea. 

Lo  !  herebeneath  (another  coward  cries) 

The  cursed  land  of  sunk  Atlantis  lies  : 
This  slime  will  suck  us  down — turn  while  thou  'rt  free  !- 
But  no  !  .1  said,  Freedom  bears  West  for  me  f 

Yet  when  the  long-time  stagnant  winds  arise, 

And  day  by  day  the  keel  to  westward  flies, 
My  Good  my  people's  111  doth  come  to  be  : 

Ever  the  winds  into  the  West  do  blow  ; 

Never  a  ship,  once  turned,  might  homeward  go  ; 
Meanwhile  we  speed  into  the  lonesome  main. 

For  Chrisfs  sake,  parley,  Admiral!     Turn,  before 
We  sail  outside  all  bounds  of  help  from  pain  ! — 

Our  help  is  in  the  West,  I  said  once  more. 


VII. 

"  So  when  there  came  a  mighty  cry  of  Land  / 

And  we  clomb  up  and  saw,  and  shouted  strong 
Salve  Regina  !  all  the  ropes  along, 
But  knew  at  morn  how  that  a  counterfeit  band 
Of  level  clouds  had  aped  a  silver  strand  ; 


126  PSALM  OF  THE  WEST. 

So  when  we  heard  the  orchard-bird's  small  song, 
And  all  the  people  cried,  A  hellish  throng 
To  tempt  us  onward  by  the  Devil  planned, 
Yea,  all  from  hell — keen  heron,  fresh  green  weeds, 
Pelican,  tunny-fish,  fair  tapering  reeds. 
Lie-telling  lands  that  ever  shine  and  die 
In  clouds  of  nothing  round  the  empty  sky. 
Tired  Admiral,  get  thee  from  this  hell,  and  rest  /— 
Steersman,  I  said,  hold  straight  into  the  West. 

VIII. 

"  I  marvel  how  mine  eye,  ranging  the  Night, 

From  its  big  circling  ever  absently 

Returns,  thou  large  low  Star,  to  fix  on  thee. 
Maria  !  Star  ?  No  star  :  a  Light,  a  Light ! 
Wouldst  leap  ashore,  Heart  ?  Yonder  burns — a  Light. 

Pedro  Gutierrez,  wake  !  come  up  to  me. 

I  prithee  stand  and  gaze  about  the  sea  : 
What  seest  ?     Admiral,  like  as  land — a  Light ! 
Well !  Sanchez  of  Segovia,  come  and  try  : 
What  seest  ?    Admiral,  naught  but  sea  and  sky  / 

Well!  But  /saw  It.     Wait !  the  Pinta's  gun  ! 

Why,  look,  'tis  dawn,  the  land  is  clear  :  'tis  done  ! 
Two  dawns  do  break  at  once  from  Time's  full  hand — 
God's,    East — mine,    West:    good    friends,    behold    my 
Land !  " 

Master,  Master  !  faster  fly 
Now  the  hurrying  seasons  by  ; 
Now  the  Sea  of  Darkness  wide 
Rolls  in  light  from  side  to  side  ; 
Mark,  slow  drifting  to  the  West 
Down  the  trough  and  up  the  crest, 
Yonder  piteous  heartsease  petal 
Many-motioned  rise  and  settle— 


PSALM  OF  THE  WEST  I2/ 

Petal  cast  a-sea  from  land 
By  the  awkward-fingered  Hand 
That,  mistaking  Nature's  course, 
Tears  the  love  it  fain  would  force- 
Petal  calm  of  heartsease  flower 
Smiling  sweet  on  tempest  sour, 
Smiling  where  by  crest  and  trough 
Heartache  Winds  at  heartsease  scoff, 
Breathing  mild  perfumes  of  prayer 
'Twixt  the  scolding  sea  and  air. 

Mayflower,  piteous  Heartsease  Petal! 
Suavely  down  the  sea-troughs  settle, 
Gravely  breathe  perfumes  of  prayer 
'Twixt.  the  scolding  sea  and  air, 
Bravely  up  the  sea-hills  rise — 
Sea-hills  slant  thee  toward  the  skies. 
Master,  hold  disaster  off 
From  the  crest  and  from  the  trough  ; 
Heartsease,  on  the  heartache  sea 
God,  thy  God,  will  pilot  thee. 

Mayflower,  Ship  of  Faith's  best  Hope  1 
Thou  art  sure  if  all  men  grope  ; 
Mayflower,  Ship  of  Hope's  best  Faith! 
All  is  true  the  great  God  saith ; 
Mayflower,  Ship  of  Charity  ! 
Love  is  Lord  of  land  and  sea. 
Oh,  with  love  and  love's  best  care 
Thy  large  godly  freightage  bear — 
Godly  Hearts  that,  Grails  of  gold, 
Still  the  blood  of  Faith  do  hold. 

Now  bold  Massachusetts  clear 
Cuts  the  rounding  of  the  sphere. 


128  PSALM   OF  THE  WEST. 

Out  the  anchor,  sail  no  more, 
Lay  us  by  the  Future* 's  shore — 
Not  the  shore  we  sought,  'tis  true, 
But  the  time  is  come  to  do. 
Leap,  dear  Standish,  leap  and  ivade  j 
Bradford,  Hopkins,  Tilley,  ivade  : 
Leap  and  wade  ashore  and  kneel — 
God  be  praised  that  steered  the  keel ! 
Home  is  good  and  soft  is  rest, 
Even  in  this  jagged  West: 
Freedom  lives,  and  Right  shall  stand / 
Blood  of  Faith  is  in  the  land. 

Then  in  what  time  the  primal  icy  years 
Scraped  slowly  o'er  the  Puritans'  hopes  and  fears. 
Like  as  great  glaciers  built  of  frozen  tears, 
The  Voice  from  far  within  the  secret  sky 
Said,  Blood  of  Faith  ye  have  ?    So  ;  let  us  try. 

And  presently 

The  anxious-masted  ships  that  westward  fare, 
Cargo'd  with  trouble  and  a-list  with  care, 
Their  outraged  decks  hot  back  to  England  bear, 
Then  come  again  with  stowage  of  worse  weight, 
Battle,  and  tyrannous  Tax,  and  Wrong,  and  Hate. 
And  all  bad  items  of  Death's  perilous  freight. 

O'er  Cambridge  set  the  yeomen's  mark  : 
Climb,  patriot,  through  the  April  dark. 
O  lanthorn  t  kindle  fast  thy  light, 
Thou  budding  star  in  the  April  night, 
For  never  a  star  more  news  hath  told, 
Or  later  flame  in  heaven  shall  hold. 
Ay,  lanthorn  on  the  North  Church  tower, 
When  that  thy  church  hath  had  her  hour, 


PSALM   OF  THE  WEST.  129 

Still  from  the  top  of  Reverence  high 
Shalt  thou  illume  Fame's  ampler  sky  ; 
For,  statured  large  o'er  town  and  tree, 
Time's  tallest  Figure  stands  by  thee, 
And,  dim  as  now  thy  wick  may  shine 
The  Future  lights  his  lamp  at  thine. 

Now  haste  thee  while  the  way  is  clear, 

Paul  Revere ! 
Haste,  Dawes  !  but  haste  thou  not,  O  Sun! 

To  Lexington. 

Then  Devens  looked  and  saw  the  light : 
He  got  him  forth  into  the  night, 
And  watched  alone  on  the  river-shore, 
And  marked  the  British  ferrying  o'er. 

John  Parker  !  rub  thine  eyes  and  yawn  : 
But  one  o'clock  and  yet  'tis  Dawn  ! 
Quick,  rub  thine  eyes  and  draw  thy  hose  I 
The  Morning  comes  ere  darkness  goes. 
Have  forth  and  call  the  yeomen  out, 
For  somewhere,  somewhere  close  about 
Full  soon  a  Thing  must  come  to  be 
Thine  honest  eyes  shall  stare  to  see — 
Full  soon  before  thy  patriot  eyes 
Freedom  from  out  of  a  Wound  shall  rise. 

Then  haste  ye,  Prescott  and  Revere  1 
Bring  all  the  men  of  Lincoln  here  ; 
Let  Chelmsford,  Littleton,  Carlisle, 
Let  Acton,  Bedford,  hither  file — 
Oh  hither  file,  and  plainly  see 
Out  of  a  wound  leap  Liberty. 
6* 


ISO  PSALM   OF  THE  WEST. 

Say,  Woodman  April !  all  in  green, 
Say,  Robin  April !  hast  thou  seen 
In  all  thy  travel  round  the  earth 
Ever  a  morn  of  calmer  birth  ? 
But  Morning's  eye  alone  serene 
Can  gaze  across  yon  village-green 
To  where  the  trooping  British  run 
Through  Lexington. 

Good  men  in  fustian,  stand  ye  still ; 

The  men  in  red  come  o'er  the  hill. 

Lay  down  your  arms,  damned  Rebels  /  cry 

The  men  in  red  full  haughtily. 

But  never  a  grounding  gun  is  heard  ; 

The  men  in  fustian  stand  unstirred  ; 

Dead  calm,  save  maybe  a  wise  bluebird 

Puts  in  his  little  heavenly  word. 

O  men  in  red  !  if  ye  but  knew 

The  half  as  much  as  bluebirds  do, 

Now  in  this  little  tender  calm 

Each  hand  would  out,  and  every  palm 

With  patriot  palm  strike  brotherhood's  stroke 

Or  ere  these  lines  of  battle  broke. 


O  men  in  red  !  if  ye  but  knew 

The  least  of  the  all  that  bluebirds  do, 

Now  in  this  little  godly  calm 

Yon  voice  might  sing  the  Future's  Psalm — 

The  Psalm  of  Love  with  the  brotherly  eyes 

Who  pardons  and  is  very  wise — 

Yon  voice  that  shouts,  high-hoarse  with  ire, 

Fire  ! 

The  red- coats  fire,  the  homespuns  fall : 
The  homespuns'  anxious  voices  call, 


PSALM   OF   THE   WEST.  l$l 

Brother,  art  hurt  ?  and  Where  hit,  John  f 

And,  Wipe  this  blood,  and  Men,  come  on, 

And,  Neighbor,  do  but  lift  my  head, 

And  Who  is  wounded  f     Who  is  dead  f 

Seven  are  killed.     My  God  /  my  God  f 

Seven  lie  dead  on  the  village  sod. 

Two  Harringtons,  Parker,  Hadley,  Brown, 

Monroe  and  Porter, — these  are  down. 

Nay,  look!     Stout  Harrington  not  yet  dead! 

He  crooks  his  elbow,  lifts  his  head. 

He  lies  at  the  step  of  his  own  house-door  ; 

He  crawls  and  makes  a  path  of  gore. 

The  wife  from  the  window  hath  seen,  and  rushed ; 

He  hath  reached  the  step,  but  the  blood  hath  gushed  ; 

He  hath  crawled  to  the  step  of  his  own  house-door, 

But  his  head  hath  dropped  :  he  will  crawl  no  more. 

Clasp,  Wife,  and  kiss,  and  lift  the  head  : 

Harrington  lies  at  his  doorstep  dead. 

But,  O  ye  Six  that  round  him  lay 

And  bloodied  up  that  April  day  I 

As  Harrington  fell,  ye  likewise  fell — 

At  the  door  of  the  House  wherein  ye  dwell ; 

As  Harrington  came,  ye  likewise  came 

And  died  at  the  door  of  your  House  of  Fame. 


Go  by,  old  Field  of  Freedom's  hopes  and  fears ; 
Go  by,  old  Field  of  Brothers'  hate  and  tears  : 
Behold  !  yon  home  of  Brothers'  Love  appears 
Set  in  the  burnished  silver  of  July, 
On  Schuylkill  wrought  as  in  old  broidery 
Clasped  hands  upon  a  shining  baldric  lie, 
New  Hampshire,  Georgia,  and  the  mighty  ten 
That  lie  between,  have  heard  the  huge-nibbed  pen 
Of  Jefferson  tell  the  rights  of  man  to  men. 


32  PSALM  OF  THE  WEST, 

They  sit  in  the  reverend  Hall :  Shall  we  declare  f 
Floats  round  about  the  anxious-quivering  air 
'Twixt  narrow  Schuylkill  and  broad  Delaware. 
Already,  Land  !  thou  hast  declared  :  'tis  done. 
Ran  ever  clearer  speech  than  that  did  run 
When  the  sweet  Seven  died  at  Lexington  ? 

Canst  legibler  write  than  Concord's  large-stroked  Acts 
Or  when  at  Bunker  Hill  the  clubbed  guns  cracked? 
Hast  ink  more  true  than  blood,  or  pen  than  fact  ? 
Nay,  as  the  poet  mad  with  heavenly  fires 
Flings  men  his  song  white-hot,  then  back  retires, 
Cools  heart,  broods  o'er  the  song  again,  inquires, 
Why  did  I  this ,  why  that?  and  slowly  draws 
From  Art's  unconscious  act  Art's  conscious  laws ; 
So,  Freedom,  writ,  declares  her  writing's  cause. 
All  question  vain,  all  chill  foreboding  vain. 
Adams,  ablaze  with  faith,  is  hot  and  fain  ; 
And  he,  straight- fibred  Soul  of  mighty  grain, 
Deep-rooted  Washington,  afire,  serene — 
Tall  Bush  that  burns,  yet  keeps  its  substance  green- 
Sends  daily  word,  of  import  calm  yet  keen, 
Warm  from  the  front  of  battle,  till  the  fire 
Wraps  opposition  in  and  flames  yet  higher, 
And  Doubt's  thin  tissues  flash  where  Hope's  aspire ; 
And,  Ay,  declare,  and  ever  strenuous  Ay 
Falls  from  the  Twelve,  and  Time  and  Nature  cry 
Consent  with  kindred  burnings  of  July  ; 
And  delegate  Dead  from  each  past  age  and  race, 
Viewless  to  man,  in  large  procession  pace 
Downward  athwart  each  set  and  steadfast  face, 
Responding  Ay  in  many  tongues  ;  and  lo  ! 
Manhood  and  Faith  and  Self  and  Love  and  Wo6 
And  Art  and  Brotherhood  and  Learning  go 
Rearward  the  files  of  dead,  and  softly  say 
Their  saintly  Ay,  and  softly  pass  away 
B.y  airy  exits  of  that  amole  day. 


PSALM   OF   THE   WEST.  133 

Now  fall  the  chill  reactionary  snows 
Of  man's  defect,  and  every  wind  that  blows 
Keeps  back  the  Spring  of  Freedom's  perfect  Rose. 
Now  naked  feet  with  crimson  fleck  the  ways, 
And  Heaven  is  stained  with  flags  that  mutinies  raise, 
And  Arnold-spotted  move  the  creeping  days. 
Long  do  the  eyes  that  look  from  Heaven  see 
Time  smoke,  as  in  the  spring  the  mulberry  tree, 
With  buds  of  battles  opening  fitfully, 
Till  Yorktown's  winking  vapors  slowly  fade, 
And  Time's  full  top  casts  down  a  pleasant  shade 
Where  Freedom  lies  unarmed  and  unafraid. 


Master,  ever  faster  fly 
Now  the  vivid  seasons  by  ; 
Now  the  glittering  Western  land 
Twins  the  day-lit  Eastern  Strand  ; 
Now  white  Freedom's  sea-bird  wing 
Roams  the  Sea  of  Everything  ; 
Now  the  freemen  to  and  fro 
Bind  the  tyrant  sand  and  snow, 
Snatching  Death's  hot  bolt  ere  hurled, 
Flash  new  Life  about  the  world, 
Sun  the  secrets  of  the  hills, 
Shame  the  gods'  slow-grinding  mills, 
Prison  Yesterday  in  Print, 
Read  To-morrow's  weather-hint, 
Haste  before  the  halting  Time, 
Try  new  virtue  and  new  crime, 
Mould  new  faiths,  devise  new  creeds, 
Run  each  road  that  frontward  leads, 
Driven  by  an  Onward-ache, 
Scorning  souls  that  circles  make. 


134  PSALM   OF  THE  WEST. 

Now,  O  Sin !  O  Love's  lost  Shame ! 
Burns  the  land  with  redder  flame  : 
North  in  line  and  South  in  line 
Yell  the  charge  and  spring  the  mine. 
Heartstrong  South  would  have  his  way, 
Headstrong  North  hath  said  him  nay  : 
O  strong  Heart,  strong  Brain,  beware  I 
Hear  a  Song  from  out  the  air  : 

I. 

"  Lists  all  white  and  blue  in  the  skies ; 

And  the  people  hurried  amain 
To  the  Tournament  under  the  ladies'  eyes 
Where  jousted  Heart  and  Brain. 

II. 

"  Blow,  herald,  blow  !     There  entered  Heart, 

A  youth  in  crimson  and  gold. 
Blow,  herald,  blow  !     Brain  stood  apart, 
Steel-armored,  glittering,  cold. 

III. 

"  Heart's  palfrey  caracoled  gayly  round, 

Heart  tra  li-raed  merrily  ; 
But  Brain  sat  still,  with  never  a  sound — 
Full  cynical-calm  was  he. 

IV. 

"  Heart's  helmet-crest  bore  favors  three 
From  his  lady's  white  hand  caught ; 
Brain's  casque  was  bare  as  Fact — not  he 
Or  favor  gave  or  sought. 


PSALM   OF  THE   WEST.  1 35 


V. 


"  Blow,  herald ',  blow  /    Heart  shot  a  glance 

To  catch  his  lady's  eye  ; 
But  Brain  looked  straight  a-front,  his  lance 
To  aim  more  faithfully. 

VI. 

"  They  charged,  they  struck  ;  both  fell,  both  bled ; 

Brain  rose  again,  ungloved  ; 
Heart  fainting  smiled,  and  softly  said, 
My  love  to  my  Beloved." 

Heart  and  Brain  !  no  more  be  twain  > 
Throb  and  think,  one  flesh  again ! 
Lo  !  they  weep,  they  turn,  they  run  ; 
Lo  !  they  kiss  :  Love,  thou  art  one  ! 


Now  the  Land,  with  drying  tears, 
Counts  him  up  his  flocks  of  years, 
"  See,"  he  says,  "  my  substance  grows ; 
Hundred-flocked  my  Herdsman  goes, 
Hundred-flocked  my  Herdsman  stands 
On  the  Past's  broad  meadow-lands, 
Come  from  where  ye  mildly  graze, 
Black  herds,  white  herds,  nights  and  days. 
Drive  them  homeward,  Herdsman  Time, 
From  the  meadows  of  the  Prime  : 
I  will  feast  my  house,  and  rest. 
Neighbor  East,  come  over  West ; 
Pledge  me  in  good  wine  and  words 
While  I  count  my  hundred  herds, 


136  PSALM   OF  THE   WEST. 

Sum  the  substance  of  my  Past 
From  the  first  unto  the  last, 
Chanting  o'er  the  generous  brim 
Cloudy  memories  yet  more  dim, 
Ghostly  rhymes  of  Norsemen  pale 
Staring  by  old  Bjdrne's  sail, 
Strains  more  noble  of  that  night 
Worn  Columbus  saw  his  Light, 
Psalms  of  still  more  heavenly  tone, 
How  the  Mayflower  tossed  alone, 
Olden  tale  and  later  song 
Of  the  Patriot's  love  and  wrong, 
Grandsire's  ballad,  nurse's  hymn — 
Chanting  o'er  the  sparkling  brim 
Till  I  shall  from  first  to  last 
Sum  the  substance  of  my  Past." 


Then  called  the  Artist's  God  from  in  the  sky  : 
"  This  Time  shall  show  by  dream  and  mystery 
The  heart  of  all  his  matter  to  thine  eye. 
Son,  study  stars  by  looking  down  in  streams, 
Interpret  that  which  is  by  that  which  seems, 
And  tell  thy  dreams  in  words  which  are  but  dreams. 


The  Master  with  His  lucent  hand 
Pinched  up  the  atom  hills  and  plains 

O'er  all  the  moiety  of  land 
The  ocean-bounded  West  contains  : 

The  dust  lay  dead  upon  the  calm 

And  mighty  middle  of  His  palm. 


PSALM   OF  THE   WEST.  137 


II. 

And  lo  !  He  wrought  full  tenderly, 
And  lo  !  He  wrought  with  love  and  might, 

And  lo  !  He  wrought  a  thing  to  see 
Was  marvel  in  His  people's  sight : 

He  wrought  His  image  dead  and  small, 

A  nothing  fashioned  like  an  All. 

III. 

Then  breathed  He  softly  on  the  dead  : 
Live  Self! — thou  part,  yet  none,  of  Me  ; 

Dust  for  humility,"  He  said, 
And  my  warm  breath  for  Charity. 

Behold  my  latest  work,  thou  Earth ! 

The  Self  of  Man  is  taking  birth." 

IV. 

Then,  Land,  tall  Adam  of  the  West, 
Thou  stood'st  upon  the  springy  sod, 

Thy  large  eye  ranging  self-possest, 
Thy  limbs  the  limbs  of  God's  young  god, 

Thy  Passion  murmuring  I  will — 

Lord  of  the  Lordship  Good-and-Ill. 

V. 

O  manful  arms,  of  supple  size 
To  clasp  a  world  or  a  waist  as  well ! 

O  manful  eyes,  to  front  the  skies 
Or  look  much  pity  down  on  hell ! 

O  manful  tongue,  to  work  and  sing, 

And  soothe  a  child  and  dare  a  king ! 


'.38  PSALM    OF   THE   WEST. 


VI. 

O  wonder  !     Now  thou  sleep'st  in  pain, 
Like  as  some  dream  thy  soul  did  grieve  : 

God  wounds  thee,  heals  thee  whole  again, 
And  calls  thee  trembling  to  thine  Eve. 

Wide-armed,  thou  dropp'st  on  knightly  knee  : 

Dear  Love,  Dear  Freedom,  go  with  me  / 

VII. 

Then  all  the  beasts  before  thee  passed — 
Beast  War,  Oppression,  Murder,  Lust, 

False  Art,  False  Faith,  slow  skulking  last — 
And  out  of  Time's  thick-rising  dust 

Thy  Lord  said,  "  Name  them,  tame  them,  Sonj 

Nor  rest,  nor  rest,  till  thou  hast  done." 

VIII. 

Ah.  name  thou  false,  or  tame  thou  wrong, 
At  heart  let  no  man  fear  for  thee  : 

Thy  Past  sings  ever  Freedom's  Song, 
Thy  Future's  voice  sounds  wondrous  free  ; 

And  Freedom  is  more  large  than  Crime, 

And  Error  is  more  small  than  Time. 

IX. 

Come,  thou  whole  Self  of  Latter  Man  1 
Come  o'er  thy  realm  of  Good-and-Ill, 

And  do,  thou  Self  that  say'st  I  can, 
And  love,  thou  Self  that  say'st  /  will ; 

And  prove  and  know  Time's  worst  and  best, 

Thou  tall  young  Adam  of  the  West  1 
BALTIMORE,  1876. 


AT  FIRST. 


AT  FIRST. 

TO    CHARLOTTE    CUSHMAN. 

MY  crippled  sense  fares  bow'd  along 

His  uncompanioned  way, 
And  wronged  by  death  pays  life  with  wrong 
And  I  wake  by  night  and  dream  by  day. 

And  the  Morning  seems  but  fatigued  Night 

That  hath  wept  his  visage  pale, 
And  the  healthy  mark  'twixt  dark  and  light 
In  sickly  sameness  out  doth  fail. 

And  the  woods  stare  strange,  and  the  wind  is 

— O  Wind,  pray  talk  again — 

And  the  Hand  of  the  Frost  spreads  stark  and  numb 
As  Death's  on  the  deadened  window-pane. 

Still  dumb,  thou  Wind,  old  voluble  friend? 

And  the  middle  of  the  day  is  cold, 
And  the  heart  of  eve  beats  lax  i'  the  end 
As  a  legend's  climax  poorly  told. 

Oh  vain  the  up-straining  of  the  hands 

In  the  chamber  late  at  night, 
Oh  vain  the  complainings,  the  hot  demands, 
The  prayers  for  a  sound,  the  tears  for  a  sight. 


I4O  AT   FIRST. 

No  word  from  over  the  starry  line, 

No  motion  felt  in  the  dark, 
And  never  a  day  gives  ever  a  sign 
Or  a  dream  sets  seal  with  palpable  mark. 

And  O  my  God,  how  slight  it  were, 
How  nothing,  thou  All !  to  thee, 
That  a  kiss  or  a  whisper  might  fall  from  her 
Down  by  the  way  of  Time  to  me  : 

Or  some  least  grace  of  the  body  of  love, 

— Mere  wafture  of  floating-by, 
Mere  sense  of  unseen  smiling  above, 
Mere  hint  sincere  of  a  large  blue  eye, 

Mere  dim  receipt  of  sad  delight 

From  Nearness  warm  in  the  air, 
What  time  with  the  passing  of  the  night 
She  also  passed,  somehow,  somewhere. 

BALTIMORE,  1876. 


A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER.   14! 


A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE 
MASTER. 

INTO  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him  : 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last : 

'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him — last 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 

BALTIMORE,  November,  1880. 


142  A   FLORIDA   SUNDAY. 


A  FLORIDA   SUNDAY. 

FROM  cold  Norse  caves  or  buccaneer  Southern  seas 

Oft  come  repenting  tempests  here  to  die  ; 
Bewailing  old-time  wrecks  and  robberies, 

They  shrive  to  priestly  pines  with  many  a  sigh, 
Breathe  salutary  balms  through  lank-lock'd  hair 

Of  sick  men's  heads,  and  soon — this  world  outworn— * 
Sink  into  saintly  heavens  of  stirless  air, 

Clean  from  confessional.     One  died,  this  morn, 
And  willed  the  world  to  wise  Queen  Tranquil :  she, 

Sweet  sovereign  Lady  of  all  souls  that  bide 
In  contemplation,  tames  the  too  bright  skies 

Like  that  faint  agate  film,  far  down  descried, 
Restraining  suns  in  sudden  thoughtful  eyes 

Which  flashed  but  now.     Blest  distillation  rare 
Of  o'er-rank  brightness  filtered  waterwise 

Through  all  the  earths  in  heaven — thou  always  fair, 
Still  virgin  bride  of  e'er- creating  thought — 
Dream-worker,  in  whose  dream  the  Future's  wrought— 
Healer  of  hurts,  free  balm  for  bitter  wrongs — 
Most  silent  mother  of  all  sounding  songs — 
Thou  that  dissolves!  hells  to  make  thy  heaven — 
Thou  tempest's  heir,  that  keep'st  no  tempest  leaven- 
But  after  winds'  and  thunders'  wide  mischance 
Dost  brood,  and  better  thine  inheritance — 
Thou  privacy  of  space,  where  each  grave  Star 
As  in  his  own  still  chamber  sits  afar 


A  FLORIDA   SUNDAY.  143 

To  meditate,  yet,  by  thy  walls  unpent, 
Shines  to  his  fellows  o'er  the  firmament— 
Oh  !  as  thou  liv'st  in  all  this  sky  and  sea 
That  likewise  lovingly  do  live  in  thee, 
So  melt  my  soul  in  thee,  and  thine  in  me, 
Divine  Tranquillity ! 

Gray  Pelican,  poised  where  yon  broad  shallows  shine, 

Know'st  thou,  that  finny  foison  all  is  mine 

In  the  bag  below  thy  beak — yet  thine,  not  less  ? 

For  God,  of  His  most  gracious  friendliness, 

Hath  wrought  that  every  soul,  this  loving  morn, 

Into  all  things  may  be  new-corporate  born, 

And  each  live  whole  in  all  :  I  sail  with  thee, 

Thy  Pelican's  self  is  mine  ;  yea,  silver  Sea, 

In  this  large  moment  all  thy  fishes,  ripples,  bights, 
Pale  in-shore  greens  and  distant  blue  delights, 
White  visionary  sails,  long  reaches  fair 
By  moon-horn'd  strands  that  film  the  far-off  air, 

Bright  sparkle-revelations,  secret  majesties, 

Shells,  wrecks  and  wealths,  are  mine  ;  yea,  Orange-trees, 
That  lift  your  small  world-systems  in  the  light, 
Rich  sets  of  round  green  heavens  studded  bright 
With  globes  of  fruit  that  like  still  planets  shine, 
Mine  is  your  green-gold  universe  ;  yea,  mine, 
White  slender  Lighthouse  fainting  to  the  eye 
That  wait'st  on  yon  keen  cape-point  wistfully, 
Like  to  some  maiden  spirit  pausing  pale, 
New-wing'd,  yet  fain  to  sail 

Above  the  serene  Gulf  to  where  a  bridegroom  soul 
Calls  o'er  the  soft  horizon — mine  thy  dole 
Of  shut  undaring  wings  and  wan  desire — 
Mine,  too,  thy  later  hope  and  heavenly  fire 
Of  kindling  expectation  ;  yea,  all  sights, 
All  sounds,  that  make  this  morn — quick  flights 


144  A  FLORIDA  SUNDAY. 

Of  pea-green  paroquets  'twixt  neighbor  trees, 

Like  missives  and  sweet  morning  inquiries 

From  green  to  green,  in  green — live  oaks'  round  heads, 

Busy  with  jays  for  thoughts — grays,  whites  and  reds 

Of  pranked  woodpeckers  that  ne'er  gossip  out, 

But  alway  tap  at  doors  and  gad  about — 

Robins  and  mocking-birds  that  all  day  long 

Athwart  straight  sunshine  weave  cross-threads  of  song, 

Shuttles  of  music — clouds  of  mosses  gray 

That  rain  me  rains  of  pleasant  thoughts  alway 

From  a  low  sky  of  leaves — faint  yearning  psalms 

Of  endless  metre  breathing  through  the  palms 

That  crowd  and  lean  and  gaze  from  off  the  shore 

Ever  for  one  that  cometh  nevermore — 

Palmettos  ranked,  with  childish  spear-points  set 

Against  no  enemy — rich  cones  that  fret 

High  roofs  of  temples  shafted  tall  with  pines — 

Green,  grateful  mangroves  where  the  sand-beach  shines— 

Long  lissome  coast  that  in  and  outward  swerves, 

The  grace  of  God  made  manifest  in  curves — 

All  riches,  goods  and  braveries  never  told 

Of  earth,  sun,  air  and  heaven — now  I  hold 

Your  being  in  my  being  ;  I  am  ye, 

And  ye  myself;  yea,  lastly,  Thee, 
God,  whom  my  roads  all  reach,  howe'er  they  run, 
My  Father,  Friend,  Beloved,  dear  All- One, 
Thee  in  my  soul,  my  soul  in  Thee,  I  feel, 
Self  of  my  self.     Lo,  through  my  sense  doth  steal 
Clear  cognizance  of  all  selves  and  qualities, 
Of  all  existence  that  hath  been  or  is, 
Of  all  strange  haps  that  men  miscall  of  chance, 
And  all  the  works  of  tireless  circumstance  : 
Each  borders  each,  like  mutual  sea  and  shore, 
Nor  aught  misfits  his  neighbor  that 's  before, 


A   FLORIDA   SUNDAY.  145 

Nor  him  that 's  after — nay,  through  this  still  air, 
Out  of  the  North  come  quarrels,  and  keen  blare 
Of  challenge  by  the  hot-breath'd  parties  blown  ; 
Yet  break  they  not  this  peace  with  alien  tone, 
Fray  not  my  heart,  nor  fright  me  for  my  land, 
— I  hear  from  all-wards,  allwise  understand, 
The  great  bird  Purpose  bears  me  twixt  her  wings, 
And  I  am  one  with  all  the  kinsmen  things 
That  e'er  my  Father  fathered.     Oh,  to  me 
All  questions  solve  in  this  tranquillity  : 
E'en  this  dark  matter,  once  so  dim,  so  drear, 
Now  shines  upon  my  spirit  heavenly-clear: 
Thou,  Father,  without  logic,. tellest  me 
How  this  divine  denial  true  may  be, 
— How  All 's  in  each,  yet  every  one  of  all 
•Maintains  his  Self  complete  and  several 

TAMPA,  FLORIDA,  1877. 
7 


146  TO  MY  CLASS. 


TO  MY  CLASS: 

ON  CERTAIN  FRUITS  AND   FLOWERS  SENT  ME  IN  SICKNESS. 

IF  spicy-fringed  pinks  that  blush  and  pale 
With  passions  of  perfume, — if  violets  blue 
That  hint  of  heaven  with  odor  more  than  hue,— 
If  perfect  roses,  each  a  holy  Grail 
Wherefrom  the  blood  of  beauty  doth  exhale 

Grave  raptures  round, — if  leaves  of  green  as  new 
As  those  fresh  chaplets  wove  in  dawn  and  dew 
By  Emily  when  down  the  Athenian  vale 
She  paced,  to  do  observance  to  the  May, 

Nor  dreamed  of  Arcite  nor  of  Palamon, — 
If  fruits  that  riped  in  some  more  riotous  play 
Of  wind  and  beam  than  stirs  our  temperate  sun, — 
If  these  the  products  be  of  love  and  pain, 
Oft  may  I  suffer,  and  you  love,  again. 

BALTIMORE,  Christmas,  1880. 


ON  VIOLET'S  WAFERS.  147 


ON  VIOLET'S  WAFERS, 

SENT  ME  WHEN  I  WAS  ILL. 

FINE-TISSUED  as  her  finger-tips,  and  white 
As  all  her  thoughts  ;  in  shape  like  shields  of  prize. 
As  if  before  young  Violet's  dreaming  eyes 

Still  blazed  the  two  great  Theban  bucklers  bright 

That  swayed  the  random  of  that  furious  fight 
Where  Palamon  and  Arcite  made  assize 
For  Emily ;  fresh,  crisp  as  her  replies, 

That,  not  with  sting,  but  pith,  do  oft  invite 
More  trial  of  the  tongue  ;  simple,  like  her, 

Well  fitting  lowlihood,  yet  fine  as  well, 
— The  queen's  no  finer ;  rich  (though  gossamer) 

In  help  to  him  they  came  to,  which  may  tell 

How  rich  that  him  she '//  come  to  ;  thus  men  see. 
Like  Violet's  self  e'en  Violet's  wafers  be. 

BALTIMORE,  1881. 


148  IRELAND. 


IRELAND. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ART  AUTOGRAPH  DURING    THE    IRISH 
FAMINE,    1880. 

HEARTSOME  Ireland,  winsome  Ireland, 

Charmer  of  the  sun  and  sea, 
Bright  beguiler  of  old  anguish, ' 

How  could  Famine  frown  on  thee  ? 

As  our  Gulf-Stream,  drawn  to  thee-ward, 
Turns  him  from  his  northward  flow, 

And  our  wintry  western  headlands 
Send  thee  summer  from  their  snow, 

Thus  the  main  and  cordial  current 

Of  our  love  sets  over  sea, — 
Tender,  comely,  valiant  Ireland, 
Songful,  soulful,  sorrowful  Ireland,— 

Streaming  warm  to  comfort  th«e. 

BALTIMORE,  i88a 


UNDER  THE  CEDARCROFT  CHESTNUT.        149 


UNDER  THE    CEDARCROFT    CHESTNUT. 

TRIM  set  in  ancient  sward,  his  manful  bole 
Upbore  his  frontage  largely  toward  the  sky. 

We  could  not  dream  but  that  he  had  a  soul : 
What  virtue  breathed  from  out  his  bravery  ! 

We  gazed  o'erhead  :  far  down  our  deepening  eyes 
Rained  glamours  from  his  green  midsummer  mass. 

The  worth  and  sum  of  all  his  centuries 
Suffused  his  mighty  shadow  on  the  grass. 

A  Presence  large,  a  grave  and  steadfast  Form 
Amid  the  leaves'  light  play  and  fantasy, 

A  calmness  conquered  out  of  many  a  storm, 
A  Manhood  mastered  by  a  chestnut-tree ! 

Then,  while  his  monarch  fingers  downward  held 
The  rugged  burrs  wherewith  his  state  was  rife, 

A  voice  of  large  authoritative  Eld 
Seemed  uttering  quickly  parables  of  life  : 

How  Life  in  truth  was  sharply  set  with  ills  j 
A  kernel  cased  in  quarrels  ;  yea,  a  sphere 

Of  stings,  and  hedge- hog-round  of  mortal  quills  : 
How  most  men  itched  to  eat  too  soon  i'  the  year, 

And  took  but  wounds  and  worries  for  their  pains, 
\Vhereas  the  wise  withheld  their  patient  hands, 

Nor  plucked  green  pleasures  till  the  sun  and  rains 
And  seasonable  ripenings  burst  all  bands 


150       UNDER  THE   CEDARCROFT   CHESTNUT. 

And  opened  "wide  the  liberal  burrs  of  life. 

There,  O  my  Friend,  beneath  the  chestnut  bough, 
Gazing  on  thee  immerged  in  modern  strife, 

I  framed  a  prayer  of  fervency — that  thou, 

In  soul  and  stature  larger  than  thy  kind, 

Still  more  to  this  strong  Form  might'st  liken  thee, 

Till  thy  whole  Self  in  every  fibre  find 
The  tranquil  lordship  of  thy  chestnut  tree. 

TAMPA,  FLORIDA,  February,  1877. 


EVENING  SONG.  l$l 


EVENING  SONG. 

LOOK  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea, 
How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands. 
Ah  !  longer,  longer,  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 

As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 
And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.     'Tis  done, 
Love,  lay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven's  heart 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands. 
O  night !  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart 
Never  our  Hps,  our  hands. 


1874 


I  $2  A  SUNRISE  SONG. 


A  SUNRISE  SONG.1 

YOUNG  palmer  sun,  that  to  these  shining  sands 
Pourest  thy  pilgrim's  tale,  discoursing  still 

Thy  silver  passages  of  sacred  lands, 

With  news  of  Sepulchre  and  Dolorous  Hill, 

Canst  thou  be  he  that,  yester-sunset  warm, 
Purple  with  Paynim  rage  and  wrack  desire, 

Dashed  ravening  out  of  a  dusty  lair  of  Storm, 
Harried  the  west,  and  set  the  world  on  fire  ? 

Hast  thou  perchance  repented.  Saracen  Sun  ? 

Wilt  warm  the  world  with  peace  and  dove-desire  ? 
Or  wilt  thou,  ere  this  very  day  be  done, 

Blaze  Saladin  still,  with  unforgiving  fire  ? 

BALTIMORE,  1881. 

>"A  Sunrise  Song"  leads  a  group  of  seven  short  poems  over 
looked  in  earlier  editions.  Six  of  these,  beginning  with  "  On  A 
Palmetto,"  were  unrevised  pencillings  of  late  date,  excepting  the  lines 
Of  1866  to  J.  D.  H. 


ON  A   PALMETTO.  I  $3 


ON  A  PALMETTO. 

THROUGH  all  that  year-scarred  agony  of  height, 
Unblest  of  bough  or  bloom,  to  where  expands 
His  wandy  circlet  with  his  bladed  bands 
Dividing  every  wind,  or  loud  or  light, 
To  termless  hymns  of  love  and  old  despite, 
Yon  tall  palmetto  in  the  twilight  stands, 
Bare  Dante  of  these  purgatorial  sands 
That  glimmer  marginal  to  the  monstrous  night. 
Comes  him  a  Southwind  from  the  scented  vine, 
It  breathes  of  Beatrice  through  all  his  blades, 
North,  East  or  West,  Guelph-wind  or  Ghibelline 
'Tis  shredded  into  music  down  the  shades  ; 
All  sea-breaths,  land-breaths,  systol,  diastol, 
Sway,  minstrels  of  that  grief-melodious  Soul. 


1880. 


1  "54  STRUGGLE. 


STRUGGLE. 

MY  soul  is  like  the  oar  that  momently 

Dies  in  a  desperate  stress  beneath  the  wave, 

Then  glitters  out  again  and  sweeps  the  sea  : 
Each  second  I'm  new-born  from  some  new  grave. 


CONTROL.  155 


CONTROL. 

O  HUNGER,  Hunger,  I  will  harness  thee 
And  make  thee  harrow  all  my  spirit's  glebe. 
Of  old  the  blind  bard  Herve  sang  so  sweet 
He  made  a  wolf  to  plow  his  land. 


156  TO  J.    D.    H. 


TO  J.  D.  H. 

(KILLED  AT  SURREY  c.  H.,  OCTOBER,  1866.) 


DEAR  friend,  forgive  a  wild  lament 

Insanely  following  thy  flight. 
I  would  not  cumber  thine  ascent 

Nor  drag  thee  back  into  the  night ; 

But  the  great  sea-winds  sigh  with  me, 
The  fair-faced  stars  seem  wrinkled,  old, 

And  I  would  that  I  might  lie  with  thee 
There  in  the  grave  so  cold,  so  cold  ! 

Grave  walls  are  thick,  I  cannot  see  thee, 
And  the  round  skies  are  far  and  steep  ; 

A-wild  to  quaff  some  cup  of  Lethe, 
Pain  is  proud  and  scorns  to  weep. 

My  heart  breaks  if  it  cling  about  thee, 
And  still  breaks,  if  far  from  thine. 

O  drear,  drear  death,  to  live  without  thee, 
O  sad  life — to  keep  thee  mine. 


MARSH  HYMNS. 


MARSH  HYMNS. 

BETWEEN  DAWN   AND   SUNRISE. 

WERE  silver  pink,  and  had  a  soul, 

Which  soul  were  shy,  which  shyness  might 

A  visible  influence  be,  and  roll 
Through  heaven  and  earth — 'twere  thou,  O  light  1 

O  rhapsody  of  the  wraith  of  red, 

O  blush  but  yet  in  prophecy, 
O  sun-hint  that  hath  overspread 

Sky,  marsh,  my  soul,  and  yonder  sail. 


I  $8  THOU  AND  I. 


THOU  AND  I. 

So  one  in  heart  and  thought,  I  trow, 

That  thou  might'st  press  the  strings  and  I  might  draw  the 

bow 

And  both  would  meet  in  music  sweet, 
Thou  and  I,  I  trow. 

1881. 


THE  HARD   TIMES  IN  ELFLAND.  1 59 


THE   HARD   TIMES   IN   ELFLAND. 

A  STORY   OF   CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

STRANGE  that  the  termagant  winds  should  scold 

The  Christmas  Eve  so  bitterly  ! 
But  Wife,  and  Harry  the  four-year-old, 

Big  Charley,  Nimblewits,  and  I, 

Blithe  as  the  wind  was  bitter,  drew 
More  frontward  of  the  mighty  fire, 

Where  wise  Newfoundland  Fan  foreknew 
The  heaven  that  Christian  dogs  desire — 

Stretched  o'er  the  rug,  serene  and  grave, 
Huge  nose  on  heavy  paws  reclined, 

With  never  a  drowning  boy  to  save, 
And  warmth  of  body  and  peace  of  mind. 

And,  as  our  happy  circle  sat, 

The  fire  well  capp'd  the  company  : 

In  grave  debate  or  careless  chat, 
A  right  good  fellow,  mingled  he  : 

He  seemed  as  one  of  us  to  sit, 
And  talked  of  things  above,  below, 

With  flames  more  winsome  than  our  wit, 
And  coals  that  burned  like  love  aglow. 


160  THE  HARD   TIMES   IN  ELFLAND. 

While  thus  our  rippling  discourse  rolled 
Smooth  down  the  channel  of  the  night, 

We  spoke  of  Time  :  thereat,  one  told 
A  parable  of  the  Seasons'  flight. 

"  Time  was  a  Shepherd  with  four  sheep. 

In  a  certain  Field  he  long  abode. 
He  stood  by  the  bars,  and  his  flock  bade  leap 
One  at  a  time  to  the  Common  Road. 

"  And  first  there  leapt,  like  bird  on  wing, 

A  lissome  Lamb  that  played  in  the  air. 
I  heard  the  Shepherd  call  him  Spring  : 
Oh,  large-eyed,  fresh  and  snowy  fair 

"  He  skipped  the  flowering  Highway  fast, 

Hurried  the  hedgerows  green  and  white, 
Set  maids  and  men  a-yearning,  passed 
The  Bend,  and  gambolFd  out  of  sight. 

"  And  next  marched  forth  a  matron  Ewe 

(While  Time  took  down  a  bar  for  her), 
Udder'd  so  large  'twas  much  ado 
E'en  then  to  clear  the  barrier. 

"  Full  softly  shone  her  silken  fleece 

What  stately  time  she  paced  along  : 
Each  heartsome  hoof- stroke  wrought  increase 
Of  sunlight,  substance,  seedling,  song, 

"  In  flower,  in  fruit,  in  field,  in  bird, 

Till  the  great  globe,  rich  fleck'd  and  pied, 
Like  some  large  peach  half  pinkly  furred, 
Turned  to  the  sun  a  glowing  side 


THE   HARD   TIMES   IN   ELFLAND.  l6l 

"  And  hung  in  the  heavenly  orchard,  bright, 
None-such,  complete. 

Then,  while  the  Ewe 
Slow  passed  the  Bend,  a  blur  of  light, 
The  Shepherd's  face  in  sadness  grew : 

*  '  Summer ! '  he  said,  as  one  would  say 

A  sigh  in  syllables.     So,  in  haste 
(For  shame  of  Summer's  long  delay, 
Yet  gazing  still  what  way  she  paced), 

"  He  summoned  Autumn,  slanting  down 
The  second  bar.     Thereover  strode 
A  Wether,  fleeced  in  burning  brown, 
And  largely  loitered  down  the  Road. 

"  Far  as  the  farmers  sight  his  shape 

Majestic  moving  o'er  the  way, 
All  cry  To  harvest,  crush  the  grape, 
And  haul  the  corn  and  house  the  hay, 

"  Till  presently,  no  man  can  say, 

(So  brown  the  woods  that  line  that  end) 
If  yet  the  brown-fleeced  Wether  may, 
Or  not,  have  passed  beyond  the  Bend. 

"  Now  turn  I  towards  the  Shepherd  :  lo, 
An  aged  Ram,  flapp'd,  gnarly-horn'd, 
With  bones  that  crackle  o'er  the  snow, 
Rheum'd,  wind-gall'd,  rag-fleec'd,  burr'd  and  thorn'd} 

"  Time  takes  the  third  bar  off  for  him, 

He  totters  down  the  windy  lane. 
'Tis  Winter,  still :  the  Bend  lies  dim. 

O  Lamb,  would  thou  wouldst  leap  again  1" 


1 62  THE   HARD   TIMES   IN   ELFLAND. 

Those  seasons  out,  we  talked  of  these  : 
And  I  (with  inward  purpose  sly 

To  shield  my  purse  from  Christmas  trees 
And  stockings  and  wild  robbery 

When  Hal  and  Nimblewits  invade 
My  cash  in  Santa  Claus's  name) 

In  full  the  hard,  hard  times  surveyed  ; 
Denounced  all  waste  as  crime  and  shame; 

Hinted  that  "  waste  "  might  be  a  term 

Including  skates,  velocipedes, 
Kites,  marbles,  soldiers,  towers  infirm, 

Bows,  arrows,  cannon,  Indian  reeds, 

Cap-pistols,  drums,  mechanic  toys, 
And  all  th'  infernal  host  of  horns 

Whereby  to  strenuous  hells  of  noise 
Are  turned  the  blessed  Christmas  morns  •, 

Thus,  roused — those  horns  ! — to  sacred  rage, 

I  rose,  forefinger  high  in  air, 
When  Harry  cried  (some  war  to  wage), 

"  Papa,  is  hard  times  ev'ywhere  ?  ' 

"  Maybe  in  Santa  Claus's  land 

It  isn't  hard  times  none  at  all !  " 
Now,  blessed  Vision  !  to  my  hand 
Most  pat,  a  marvel  strange  did  fall. 

Scarce  had  my  Harry  ceased,  when  "  Look  t  * 
He  cried,  leapt  up  in  wild  alarm, 

Ran  to  my  Comrade,  shelter  took 
Beneath  the  startled  mother's  arm. 


THE   HARD   TIMES   IN   ELFLAND.  163 

And  so  was  still  :  what  time  we  saw 
A  foot  hang  down  the  fireplace  !    Then, 

With  painful  scrambling  scratched  and  raw, 
Two  hands  that  seemed  like  hands  of  men 

Eased  down  two  legs  and  a  body  through 
The  blazing  fire,  and  forth  there  came 

Before  our  wide  and  wondering  view 
A  figure  shrinking  half  with  shame, 

And  half  with  weakness.     "  Sir,"  I  said, 

— But  with  a  mien  of  dignity 
The  seedy  stranger  raised  his  head  : 

"  My  friends,  I  'm  Santa  Glaus,"  said  he. 

But  oh,  how  changed  !     That  rotund  face 
The  new  moon  rivall'd,  pale  and  thin  ; 

Where  once  was  cheek,  now  empty  space  ; 
Whate'er  stood  out,  did  now  stand  in. 

His  piteous  legs  scarce  propped  him  up  : 
His  arms  mere  sickles  seemed  to  be  : 

But  most  o'erflowed  our  sorrow's  cup 
When  that  we  saw — or  did  not  see — 

His  belly  :  we  remembered  how 

It  shook  like  a  bowl  of  jelly  fine  : 
An  earthquake  could  not  shake  it  now ; 

He  had  no  belly — not  a  sign. 


*'  Yes,  yes,  old  friends,  you  well  may  stare  : 
I  have  seen  better  days,"  he  said  : 

"  But  now,  with  shrinkage,  loss  and  care, 
Your  Santa  Claus  scarce  owns  his  head. 


164  THE   HARD  TIMES  IN   ELFLAND. 

"  We  've  had  such  hard,  hard  times  this  year 

For  goblins  !     Never  knew  the  like. 

All  Elfland's  mortgaged  !    And  we  fear 

The  gnomes  are  just  about  to  strike. 

"  I  once  was  rich,  and  round,  and  hale. 

The  whole  world  called  me  jolly  brick  ; 
But  listen  to  a  piteous  tale. 

Young  Harry, — Santa  Claus  is  sick ! 

"  'Twas  thus  :  a  smooth-tongued  railroad  man 

Comes  to  my  house  and  talks  to  me  : 
'  I've  got?  says  he,  '  a  little  plan 
That  suits  this  nineteenth  century. 

"  '  Instead  of  driving,  as  you  do, 

Six  reindeer  slow  from  house  to  house, 
Let 's  build  a  Grand  Trunk  Railway  through 
From  here  to  earths  last  terminus. 

"  '  We  'II  touch  at  every  chimney-top 
{An  Elevated  Track,  of  course), 
Then,  as  we  whisk  you  by,  you 'II  drop 
Each  package  down  :  just  think,  the  force 

"  '  You 'II  save,  the  time  ! — Besides,  we 'II  make 

Our  millions  :  look  you,  soon  we  will 

Compete  for  freights — and  then  we  'II  take 

Dame  Fortune's  bales  of  good  and  ill 

'"  ( Whyt  she 's  the  biggest  shipper,  sir, 

That  e'er  did  business  in  this  world 7)  .• 
Then  Death,  that  ceaseless  Traveller, 
Shall  on  his  rounds  by  us  be  whirled. 


THE   HARD   TIMES   IN   ELFLAND.  165 


'  When  ghosts  return  to  walk  with  men, 

We1  II  bring  'em  cheap  by  steam,  and  fast  : 
We  'II  run  a  Branch  to  heaven  !  and  then 
We  'II  riot,  man  ;  for  then,  at  last 

'  We  'II  make  with  heaven  a  contract  fair 

To  call,  each  hour  ',  from  town  to  town, 
And  carry  the  dead  folks'  souls  up  there, 
And  bring  the  unborn  babies  down, 

The  plan  seemed  fair  :  I  gave  him  cash, 

Nay,  every  penny  I  could  raise. 
My  wife  e'er  cried,  '  'Tis  rash,  'tis  rash:  ' 

How  could  I  know  the  stock-thief's  ways? 

But  soon  I  learned  full  well,  poor  fool  1 
My  woes  began,  that  wretched  day. 

The  President  plied  me  like  a  tool. 
In  lawyer's  fees,  and  rights  of  way, 

Injunctions,  leases,  charters,  I 

Was  meshed  as  in  a  mighty  maze. 
The  stock  ran  low,  the  talk  ran  high  : 

Then  quickly  flamed  the  final  blaze. 

With  never  an  inch  of  track  —  'tis  true  ! 

The  debts  were  large     .     .     .     the  oft-told  tale. 
The  President  rolled  in  splendor  new 

—  He  bought  my  silver  at  the  sale. 

Yes,  sold  me  out  :  we  've  moved  away. 

I  've  had  to  give  up  everything. 
My  reindeer,  even,  whom  I     ...     pray, 

Excuse  me  "     .     .     .     here,  o'er-sorrowing, 


1 66  THE   HARD   TIMES    IN   ELFLAND. 

Poor  Santa  Claus  burst  into  tears, 

Then  calmed  again  :  "  my  reindeer  fleet, 

I  gave  them  up  :  on  foot,  my  dears, 
I  now  must  plod  through  snow  and  sleet. 

"  Retrenchment  rules  in  Elfland,  now ; 

Yes,  every  luxury  is  cut  off. 
— Which,  by  the  way,  reminds  me  how 
I  caught  this  dreadful  hacking  cough  : 

"  I  cut  off  the  tail  of  my  Ulster  furred 

To  make  young  Kris  a  coat  of  state. 
That  very  night  the  storm  occurred! 
Thus  we  become  the  sport  of  Fate. 

"  For  I  was  out  till  after  one, 

Surveying  chimney-tops  and  roofs, 
And  planning  how  it  could  be  done 
Without  my  reindeers'  bouncing  hoofs. 

"  '  My  dear,''  says  Mrs.  Claus,  that  night 

(A  most  superior  woman  she  !) 
*//  never,  never  can  be  right 

That  you,  deep-sunk  in  poverty, 

"  '  This  year  should  leave  your  poor  old  bed^ 

And  trot  about,  bent  down  with  toys, 
(There  's  Kris  a-crying  now  for  bread.1} 
To  give  to  other  people's  boys. 

"  '  Since  you  've  been  out,  the  news  arrives 
The  Elfs"1  Insurance  Company  'j  gone. 
Ah,  Claus,  those  premiums  !     Now,  our  lives 
Depend  on  yours  :  thus  griefs  go  on. 


THE   HARD   TIMES   IN   ELFLAND,  l6/ 

'* '  And  even  while  you1  re  thus  harassed, 

I  do  believe,  if  out  you  went, 
You  'd  go,  in  spite  of  all  that 's  passed, 
To  the  children  of  that  President !  ' 

"  Oh,  Charley,  Harry,  Nimblewits, 

These  eyes,  that  night,  ne'er  slept  a  wink. 
My  path  seemed  honeycombed  with  pits. 
Naught  could  I  do  but  think  and  think. 

"  But,  with  the  day,  my  courage  rose. 

Ne'er  shall  my  boys,  my  boys  (I  cried), 
When  Christmas  morns  their  eyes  unclose, 
Find  empty  stockings  gaping  wide  ! 

"  Then  hewed  and  whacked  and  whittled  I ; 

The  wife,  the  girls  and  Kris  took  fire  ; 
They  spun,  sewed,  cut, — till  by  and  by 
We  made,  at  home,  my  pack  entire  !  " 

(He  handed  me  a  bundle,  here.) 

"  Now,  hoist  me  up  :  there,  gently  :  quick  t 

Dear  boys,  don't  look  for  much  this  year  : 
Remember,  Santa  Claus  is  sick !  " 

BALTIMORE,  December,  1877. 


DIALECT     POEMS. 


A  FLORIDA   GHOST. 


A  FLORIDA   GHOST. 

DOWN  mildest  shores  of  milk-white  sand, 

By  cape  and  fair  Floridian  bay, 
Twixt  billowy  pines — a  surf  asleep  on  land — 
And  the  great  Gulf  at  play, 

Past  far-off  palms  that  filmed  to  nought, 

Or  in  and  out  the  cunning  keys 
That  laced  the  land  like  fragile  patterns  wrought 
To  edge  old  broideries. 

The  sail  sighed  on  all  day  for  joy, 

The  prow  each  pouting  wave  did  leave 
All  smile  and  song,  with  sheen  and  ripple  coy, 
Till  the  dusk  diver  Eve 

Brought  up  from  out  the  brimming  East 

The  oval  moon,  a  perfect  pearl. 
In  that  large  lustre  all  our  haste  surceased, 
The  sail  seemed  fain  to  furl, 

The  silent  steersman  landward  turned, 

And  ship  and  shore  set  breast  to  breast. 
Under  a  palm  wherethrough  a  planet  burned 
We  ate,  and  sank  to  rest. 

But  soon  from  sleep's  dear  death  (it  seemed) 

I  rose  and  strolled  along  the  sea 
Down  silver  distances  that  faintly  gleamed 
On  to  infinity. 


I/2  DIALECT   POEMS. 

Till  suddenly  I  paused,  for  lo  ! 

A  shape  (from  whence  I  ne'er  divined) 
Appeared  before  me,  pacing  to  and  fro, 
With  head  far  down  inclined. 

A  wraith  (I  thought)  that  walks  the  shore 

To  solve  some  old  perplexity. 
Full  heavy  hung  the  draggled  gown  he  wore  j 
His  hair  flew  all  awry. 

He  waited  not  (as  ghosts  oft  use) 

To  be  dear  heaven' d  .f  and  oh'd  ! 
But  briskly  said  :  "  Good-evenin' ;  what 's  the  news  ? 
Consumption  ?     After  boa'd  ? 

"  Or  mebbe  you  're  intendin'  of 

Investments  ?     Orange-plantin'  ?     Pine  ? 
Hotel  ?  or  Sanitarium  ?     What  above 
This  yea'th  can  be  your  line  ? 

"  Speakin'  of  sanitariums,  now, 

Jest  look  'ee  here,  my  friend  : 
I  know  a  little  story, — well,  I  swow, 
Wait  till  you  hear  the  end  ! 

"  Some  year  or  more  ago,  I  s'pose, 

I  roamed  from  Maine  to  Floridy, 
And, — see  where  them  Palmettos  grows  f 
I  bought  that  little  key, 

"  Cal'latin'  for  to  build  right  off 

A  c'lossal  sanitarium  : 

Big  surf !     Gulf  breeze  !     Jest  death  upon  a  cough  I 
— I  run  it  high,  to  hum  ! 


A  FLORIDA   GHOST.  1/3 

"  Well,  sir,  I  went  to  work  in  style : 

Bought  me  a  steamboat,  loaded  it 
With  my  hotel  (pyazers  more  'n  a  mile  I) 
Already  framed  and  fit, 

"  Insured  'em,  fetched  'em  safe  around, 

Put  up  my  buildin',  moored  my  boat, 
Gwz-plete  !  then  went  to  bed  and  slept  as  sound 
As  if  I  'd  paid  a  note. 

"  Now  on  that  very  night  a  squall, 

Cum  up  from  some'eres — some  bad  place ! 
An'  blowed  an'  tore  an'  reared  an'  pitched  an'  all, 
— I  had  to  run  a  race 

"  Right  out  o'  bed  from  that  hotel 

An'  git  to  yonder  risin'  ground, 
For,  'twixt  the  sea  that  riz  and  rain  that  fell, 
I  pooty  nigh  was  drowned  ! 

"  An'  thar  I  stood  till  mornin'  cum, 

Right  on  yon  little  knoll  of  sand, 
Frequently  wishin'  I  had  stayed  to  hum 
Fur  from  this  tarnal  land. 

"  When  mornin'  cum,  I  took  a  good 

Long  look,  and — well,  sir,  sure 's  I  'm  me-~ 
That  boat  laid  right  whar  that  hotel  had  stood, 
And  hit  sailed  out  to  sea ! 

"  No  :  I'll  not  keep  you  :  good-bye,  friend. 

Don't  think  about  it  much, — preehaps 
Your  brain  might  git  see-sawin',  end  for  end, 
Like  them  asylum  chaps, 


174  DIALECT   POEMS. 

"  For  here  /walk,  forevermore, 

A-tryin'  to  make  it  gee, 

How  one  same  wind  could  blow  my  ship  to  shore 
And  my  hotel  to  sea !  " 

t 
CHADD'S  FORD,  PENNSYLVANIA,  1877. 


UNCLE  JIM'S   BAPTIST   REVIVAL   HYMN. 


UNCLE  JIM'S   BAPTIST   REVIVAL   HYMN. 

BY   SIDNEY  AND   CLIFFORD   LANIER. 

[Not  long  ago  a  certain  Georgia  cotton-planter,  driven  to  despera 
tion  by  awaking  each  morning  to  find  that  the  grass  had  quite  out 
grown  the  cotton  overnight,  and  was  likely  to  choke  it,  in  defiance  of 
his  lazy  freedmen's  hoes  and  pltmghs,  set  the  whole  State  in  a  laugh  by 
exclaiming  to  a  group  of  fellow-sufferers  :  "  It's  all  stuff  about  Cincin- 
natus  leaving  the  plough  to  go  into  politics  for  patriotism  ;  he  was  just 
a-runnin'  from  grass  !  " 

This  state  of  things — when  the  delicate  young  rootlets  of  the  cotton 
are  struggling  against  the  hardier  multitudes  of.  the  grass-suckers — is 
universally  described  in  plantation  parlance  by  the  phrase  "  in  the 
grass  ;  "  and  Uncle  Jim  appears  to  have  found  in  it  so  much  similarity 
to  the  condition  of  his  own  ("  Baptis'  ")  church,  overrun,  as  it  was,  by 
the  cares  of  this  world,  that  he  has  embodied  it  in  the  refrain  of  a  re 
vival  hymn  such  as  the  colored  improvisator  of  the  South  not  infre 
quently  constructs  from  his  daily  surroundings.  He  has  drawn  all  the 
ideas  of  his  stanzas  from  the  early  morning  phenomena  of  those  critical 
weeks  when  the  loud  plantation-horn  is  blown  before  daylight,  in  order 
to  rouse  all  hands  for  a  long  day's  fight  against  the  common  enemy  of 
cotton-planting  mankind. 

In  addition  to  these  exegetical  commentaries,  the  Northern  reader 
probably  needs  to  be  informed  that  the  phrase  "  peerten  up  "  means 
Substantially  to  spur  up,  and  is  an  active  form  of  the  adjective  "  peert  " 
(probably  a  corruption  of  pert),  which  is  so  common  in  the  South,  and 
which  has  much  the  signification  of  "  smart  "  in  New  England,  as  e.g., 
a  ''  peert ''  horse,  in  antithesis  to  a  "  sorry  " — i.e.,  poor,  mean,  lazy  one.] 

Solo. — Sin's  rooster  's  crowed,  Ole  Mahster  's  riz, 

De  sleepin'-time  is  pas'  ; 
Wake  up  dem  lazy  Baptissis, 
Chorus. — Dey  's  mightily  in  de  grass,  grass, 
Dey  's  mightily  in  de  grass. 

Ole  Mahster 's  blowed  de  mornin'  horn, 

He  's  blowed  a  powerful  bias' ; 
O  Baptis'  come,  come  hoe  de  corn, 

You  's  mightily  in  de  grass,  grasst 

You  's  mightily  in  de  grass. 


IJQ  DIALECT  POEMS. 

De  Meth'dis  team 's  done  hitched  ;  O  fool, 

De  day 's  a-breakin'  iasf  ; 
Gear  up  dat  lean  ole  Baptis'  mule, 
Dey's  mightily  in  de  grass,  grass, 
Dey's  mightily  in  de  grass. 

De  workmen 's  few  an*  mons'rous  slow, 

De  cotton  's  sheddin'  fas' ; 
Whoop,  look,  jes'  look  at  de  Baptis'  row, 
Hit's  mightily  in  de  grass,  grass, 
Hit's  mightily  in  dt  grass. 

De  jay-bird  squeal  to  de  mockin'-bird  :  "  Stop! 

Don'  gimme  none  o'  yo'  sass  ; 
Better  sing  one  song  for  de  Baptis'  crop, 

Dey  's  mightily  in  de  grass,  grasst 

Dey's  mightily  in  de  grass." 

And  de  ole  crow  croak :  "  Don'  work,  no,  no  ;  " 

But  de  fiel'-lark  say,  "  Yaas,  yaas, 
An'  I  spec'  you  mighty  glad,  you  debblish  crow, 
Dat  de  Baptis  sis  's  in  de  grass ,  grass, 
Dat  de  Baptis  sis  'j  in  de  grass  /  " 

Lord,  thunder  us  up  to  de  plowin'-match, 

Lord,  peerten  de  hoein'  fas', 
Yea,  Lord,  hab  mussy  on  de  Baptis'  patch, 

Dey's  mightily  in  de  grass,  grass, 

Dey  'j  mightily  in  de  grass. 


1876, 


NINE  FROM  EIGHT.  177 


NINE  FROM   EIGHT. 

I  WAS  drivin'  my  two-mule  waggin, 

With  a  lot  o'  truck  for  sale, 

Towards  Macon,  to  git  some  baggin' 

(Which  my  cotton  was  ready  to  bale), 

And  I  come  to  a  place  on  the  side  o'  the  pike 

Whar  a  peert  little  winter  branch  jest  had  throw'd 

The  sand  in  a  kind  of  a  sand-bar  like, 

And  I  seed,  a  leetle  ways  up  the  road, 

A  man  squattin'  down,  like  a  big  bull-toad, 

On  the  ground,  a-figgerin'  thar  in  the  sand 

With  his  finger,  an&  motionin'  with  his  hand. 

And  he  looked  like  Ellick  Garry. 
And  as  I  driv  up,  I  heerd  him  bleat 
To  hisself,  like  a  lamb  :  "  Hauh  ?  nine  from  eight 

Leaves  nuthin' — and  none  to  carry  ?  " 


And  Ellick's  bull-cart  was  standin* 
A  cross-wise  of  the  way, 
And  the  little  bull  was  a-expandin', 
Hisself  on  a  wisp  of  hay. 
But  Ellick  he  sat  with  his  head  bent  down, 
A-studyin'  and  musin'  powerfully, 
And  his  forrud  was  creased  with  a  turrible  frown, 
And  he  was  a-wurken'  appearently 
A  'rethmetic  sum  that  wouldn't  gee, 
8 


t 


i;8  DIALECT  POEMS. 

Fur  he  kep'  on  figgerin'  away  in  the  sand 
With  his  finger,  and  motionin'  with  his  hand, 

And  I  seed  it  was  Ellick  Garry. 
And  agin  I  heard  him  softly  bleat 
To  hisself,  like  a  lamb  :  "  Hauh  ?  nine  from  eight 

Leaves  nuthin' — and  none  to  carry  1 " 


I  woa'd  my  mules  mighty  easy 
(Ellick's  back  was  towards  the  road 
And  the  wind  hit  was  sorter  breezy) 
And  I  got  down  off' n  my  load, 
And  I  crep'  up  close  to  Ellick's  back, 
And  I  heerd  him  a-talkin'  softly,  thus  : 
"  Them  figgers  is  got  me  under  the  hack. 
I  caint  see  how  to  git  out'n  the  muss, 
Except  to  jest  nat'ally  fail  and  bus'  ! 
My  crap-leen  calls  for  nine  hundred  and  more. 
My  counts  o'  sales  is  eight  hundred  and  four, 

Of  cotton  for  Ellick  Garry. 
Thar's  eight,  ought,  four,  jest  like  on  a  slate  : 
Here 's  nine  and  two  oughts — Hauh  ?  nine  from  eigfc? 
Leaves  nuthin' — and  none  to  carry. 

**  Them  crap-leens,  oh,  them  crap-leens  t 
I  giv  one  to  Pardman  and  Sharks. 
Hit  gobbled  me  up  like  snap-beans 
In  a  patch  full  o'  old  fiel'-larks. 
But  I  thought  I  could  fool  the  crap-leen  nice, 
And  I  hauled  my  cotton  to  Jammel  and  Cones. 
But  shuh !  'fore  I  even  had  settled  my  price 
They  tuck  affidavy  without  no  bones 
And  levelled  upon  me  fur  all  ther  loans 
To  the  'mount  of  sum  nine  hundred  dollars  or  more. 
And  sold  me  out  clean  for  eight  hundred  and  four, 


NINE   FROM   EIGHT. 

As  sure  as  I'm  Ellick  Garry  ! 
And  thar  it  is  down  all  squar  and  straight, 
But  I  can't  make  it  gee,  fur  nine  from  eight 

Leaves  nuthin' — and  none  to  carry." 

Then  I  says  "  Hello,  here,  Garry! 

However  you  star'  and  frown 

Thare  's  somethin'  fur  you  to  carry, 

Fur  you  've  worked  it  upside  down  !  " 

Then  he  riz  and  walked  to  his  little  bull-cart, 

And  made  like  he  neither  had  seen  nor  heerd 

Nor  knowed  that  I  knowed  of  his  raskilly  part, 

And  he  tried  to  look  as  if  he  wa'nt  feared, 

And  gathered  his  lines  like  he  never  keered, 

And  he  driv  down  the  road  'bout  a  quarter  or  so, 

And  then  looked  around,  and  I  hollered  "  Hello, 

Look  here,  Mister  Ellick  Garry  ! 
You  may  git  up  soon  and  lie  down  late, 
But  you'll  always  find  that  nine  from  eight 

Leaves  nuthin' — and  none  to  carry." 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1870. 


180  DIALECT  POEMS. 


THAR'S  MORE  IN  THE  MAN  THAN 
THAR  IS  IN  THE  LAND. 

I  KNOWED  a  man,  which  he  lived  in  Jones, 
Which  Jones  is  a  county  of  red  hills  and  stones, 
And  he  lived  pretty  much  by  gittin'  of  loans, 
And  his  mules  was  nuthin'  but  skin  and  bones, 
And  his  hogs  was  flat  as  his  corn-bread  pones, 
And  he  had  'bout  a  thousand  acres  o'  land. 

This  man — which  his  name  it  was  also  Jones — 

He  swore  that  he  'd  leave  them  old  red  hills  and  stones. 

Fur  he  couldn't  make  nuthin'  but  yallerish  cotton, 

And  little  o'  that,  and  his  fences  was  rotten, 

And  what  little  corn  he  had,  hit  was  boughten 

And  dinged  ef  a  livin'  was  in  the  land. 

And  the  longer  he  swore  the  madder  he  got, 
And  he  riz  and  he  walked  to  the  stable  lot, 
And  he  hollered  to  Tom  to  come  thar  and  hitch 
Fur  to  emigrate  somewhar  whar  land  was  rich, 
And  to  quit  raisin'  cock-burrs,  thistles  and  sich, 
And  a  wastin'  ther  time  on  the  cussed  land. 

So  him  and  Tom  they  hitched  up  the  mules, 
Pertestin'  that  folks  was  mighty  big  fools 
That  'ud  stay  in  Georgy  ther  lifetime  out, 
Jest  scratchin'  a  livin'  when  all  of  'em  mought 
Git  places  in  Texas  whar  cotton  would  sprout 
By  the  time  you  could  plant  it  in  the  land. 


THAR'S  MORE  IN  THE  MAN.  181 

Ancf  he  driv  by  a  house  whar  a  man  named  Brown 
Was  a  livin',  not  fur  from  the  edge  o'  town, 
And  he  bantered  Brown  fur  to  buy  his  place, 
And  said  that  bein'  as  money  was  skace, 
And  bein'  as  sheriffs  was  hard  to  face, 
Two  dollars  an  acre  would  git  the  land. 

They  closed  at  a  dollar  and  fifty  cents, 

And  Jones  he  bought  him  a  waggin  and  tents, 

And  loaded  his  corn,  and  his  wimmin,  and  truck, 

And  moved  to  Texas,  which  it  tuck 

His  entire  pile,  with  the  best  of  luck, 

To  git  thar  and  git  him  a  little  land. 

But  Brown  moved  out  on  the  old  Jones'  farm, 
And  he  rolled  up  his  breeches  and  bared  his  arm, 
And  he  picked  all  the  rocks  from  off'n  the  groun% 
And  he  rooted  it  up  and  he  plowed  it  down, 
Then  he  sowed  his  corn  and  his  wheat  in  the  land. 

Five  years  glid  by,  and  Brown,  one  day 

(Which  he  'd  got  so  fat  that  he  wouldn't  weigh), 

Was  a  settin'  down,  sorter  lazily, 

To  the  bulliest  dinner  you  ever  see, 

When  one  o'  the  children  jumped  on  his  knee 

And  says,  "  Yan  's  Jones,  which  you  bought  his  land.11 

And  thar  was  Jones,  standin'  out  at  the  fence, 
And  he  hadn't  no  waggin,  nor  mules,  nor  tents, 
Fur  he  had  left  Texas  afoot  and  cum 
To  Georgy  to  see  if  he  couldn't  git  sum 
Employment,  and  he  was  a  lookin'  as  hun?' 
Ble  as  ef  he  had  never  owned  any  land. 


1 82  DIALECT  POEMS. 

But  Brown  he  axed  him  in,  and  he  sot 

Him  down  to  his  vittles  smokin'  hot, 

And  when  he  had  filled  hisself  and  the  floor 

Brown  looked  at  him  sharp  and  riz  and  swore 

That,  "whether  men's  land  was  rich  or  poor 

Thar  was  more  in  the  man  than  thar  was  in  the  land.* 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1869. 


JONES'S  PRIVATE  ARGYMENT.  183 


JONES'S   PRIVATE  ARGYMENT, 

THAT  air  same  Jones,  which  lived  in  Jones, 

He  had  this  pint  about  him  : 
He'd  swear  with  a  hundred  sighs  and  groans, 
That  farmers  must  stop  gittin'  loans, 

And  git  along  without  'em  : 

That  bankers,  warehousemen,  and  sich 

Was  fatt'nin'  on  the  planter, 
And  Tennessy  was  rotten-rich 
A-raisin'  meat  and  corn,  all  which 

Draw'd  money  to  Atlanta  : 

And  the  only  thing  (says  Jones)  to  do 
Is,  eat  no  meat  that 's  boughten  : 
But  tear  up  every  /,  O,  f7t 
And  plant  all  corn  and  swear  for  true 
To  quit  a-raisin*  cotton  / 

Thus  spouted  Jones  (whar  folks  could  hear, 
— At  Court  and  other  gatherin's), 

And  thus  kep'  spoutin'  many  a  year, 

Proclaimin'  loudly  far  and  near 

Sich  fiddlesticks  and  blatherin's. 

But,  one  all-fired  sweatin'  day, 

It  happened  I  was  hoein* 
My  lower  corn-field,  which  it  lay 
'Longside  the  road  that  runs  my  way 

Whar  I  can  see  what's  goin*. 


1 84  DIALECT  POEMS. 

And  a'ter  twelve  o'clock  had  come 

I  felt  a  kinder  faggin', 
And  laid  myself  un'neath  a  plum 
To  let  my  dinner  settle  sum, 

When  'long  come  Jones's  waggin, 

And  Jones  was  settin'  in  it,  so  : 

A-readin'  of  a  paper. 
His  mules  was  goin'  powerful  slow, 
Fur  he  had  tied  the  lines  onto 

The  staple  of  the  scraper. 

The  mules  they  stopped  about  a  rod 

From  me,  and  went  to  feedin' 
'Longside  the  road,  upon  the  sod, 
But  Jones  (which  he  had  tuck  a  tod) 

Not  knowin',  kept  a-readin'. 

And  presently  says  he  :  "  Hit 's  true  ; 

That  Clisby's  head  is  level. 
Thar 's  one  thing  farmers  all  must  do, 
To  keep  themselves  from  goin'  tew 

Bankruptcy  and  the  devil ! 

"  More  corn !  more  corn  !  must  plant  less  ground, 

And  mustn't  eat  what 's  boughten  ! 
Next  year  they  '11  do  it  :  reasonin  's  sound  : 
(And,  cotton  will  fetch  'bout  a  dollar  a  pound), 
Tharfore,  I '//  plant  all  cotton  1 " 

MACOX,  GKORGIA,  18701 


THE  1'OWER   OF  PRAYER.  185 


THE  POWER  OF  PRAYER  ;  OR,  THE  FIRST 
STEAMBOAT  UP  THE  ALABAMA. 

BY  SIDNEY  AND   CLIFFORD   LANIER. 

You,  Dinah  !     Come  and  set  me  whar  de  ribber-roads  does 

meet. 

De  Lord,  He  made  dese  black-jack  roots  to  twis'  into  a  seat. 
Umph-  dar  !     De  Lord  have  mussy  on  dis  blin'  ole  nigger's 

feet. 

It  'pear  to  me  dis  mornin'  I  kin  smell  de  fust  o'  June. 
I  'clar',  I  b'lieve  dat  mockin'-bird  could  play  de  fiddle  soon  ! 
Dem  yonder  town-bells  sounds  like  dey  was  ringin'   in  de 
moon. 

•Well,  ef  dis  nigger  is  been  blind  for  fo'ty  year  or  mo', 
Dese  ears,  dey  sees  the  world,  like,  th'u'  de  cracks  dat 's  in 

de  do'. 
For  de  Lord  has  built  dis  body  wid  de  windows  'hind  and  'fo'. 

I  know  my  front  ones  is  stopped  up,  and  things  is  sort  o' 

dim, 
But  den,  th'u'  dem,  temptation's  rain  won't  leak  in  on  ole 

Jim! 
De  back  ones  show  me  earth  enough,  aldo'  dey  's  mons'ous 

slim. 

And  as  for  Hebben, — bless  de  Lord,  and  praise  His  holy 

name — 

Dat  shines  in  all  de  co'ners  of  dis  cabin  jes'  de  same 
As  ef  dat  cabin  hadn't  nar'  a  plank  upon  de  frame  ! 


1 86  DIALECT   POEMS. 

Who  call  me  ?     Listen  down  de  ribber,  Dinah  !     Don't  you 

hyar 
Somebody  holl'in'  "  Hoc,  Jim,  hoof".  My  Sarah  died  las' 

y'ar; 
Is  dat  black  angel  done  come  back  to  call  ole  Jim  f  om  hyar  ? 

My  stars,  dat  cain't  be  Sarah,  shuh  !     Jes'  listen,  Dinah,  now ! 
What  kin  be  comin'  up  dat  bend,  a-makin'  sich  a  row  ? 
Fus*  bellerin'  like  a  pawin'  bull,  den  squealin'  like  a  sow  ? 

De  Lord  'a'  mussy  sakes  alive,  jes'  hear, — ker-woof,  ker- 

woof — 

De  Debbie 's  comin'  round  dat  bend,  he  's  comin'  shuh  enuff, 
A-splashin'  up  de  water  wid  his  tail  and  wid  his  hoof  1 

MM** 

I'se  pow'ful  skeered  ;  but  neversomeless  I  ain't  gwine  run 

away : 

I  'm  gwine  to  stand  stiff-legged  for  de  Lord  dis  blessed  day. 
You  screech,  and  swish  de  water,  Satan  !     I  'se  a  gwine  to 

pray. 

0  hebbenly  Marster,  what  thou  wiliest,  dat  mus'  be  jes'  so, 
And  ef  Thou  hast  bespoke  de  word,  some  nigger  's  bound  to 

go- 
Den,  Lord,  please  take  ole  Jim,  and  lef  young  Dinah  hyar 
below  ! 

'Scuse  Dinah,  'scuse  her,  Marster  ;  for  she 's  sich  a  little  chile, 
She  hardly  jes'  begin  to  scramble  up  de  homeyard  stile, 
But  dis  ole  traveller's  feet  been  tired  dis  many  a  many  a  mile. 

I'se  wufless  as  de  rotten  pole  of  las'  year's  fodder-stack. 
De  rheumatiz  done  bit  my  bones ;  you  hear  'em  crack  and 
crack  ? 

1  cain'st  sit  down  'dout  gruntin*  like  'twas  breakin'  o'  my 

back. 


THE   POWER   OF   PRAYER.  l8/ 

What  use  de  wheel,  when  hub  and  spokes  is  warped  and 
split,  and  rotten  ? 

What  use  dis  dried-up  cotton-stalk,  when  Life  done  picked 
my  cotton  ? 

I'se  like  a  word  dat  somebody  said,  and  den  done  been  for 
gotten. 

But,  Dinah  !     Shuh  dat  gal  jes'  like  dis  little  hick'ry  tree, 
De  sap  's  jes'  risin  in  her  ;  she  do  grow  owdaciouslee — 
Lord,  ef  you  's  clarin'  de  underbrush,  don't  cut  her  down,  cut 
me  ! 


I  would  not  proud  persume — but  I'll  boldly  make  reques' ; 
Sence  Jacob  had  dat  wrastlin'-match,  I,  too,  gwine  do  my 

bes'  ; 
When  Jacob  got  all  underholt,  de  Lord  he  answered  Yes  I 

And  what  for  waste  de   vittles,  now,  and  th'ow  away  de 

bread, 
Jes'  for  to  strength  dese  idle  hands  to  scratch  dis  ole  bald 

head? 
T'ink  of  de  'conomy,  Marster,  ef  dis  ole  Jim  was  dead  1 

Stop  ; — ef  I  don't  believe  de  Debbie 's  gone  on  up  de  stream! 
Jes'   now   he   squealed   down  dar ; — hush;   dat's   a  mighty 

weakly  scream  ! 
Yas,  sir,  he  's  gone,  he 's  gone  ; — he  snort  way  off,  like  in  a 

dream ! 

0  glory  hallelujah  to  de  Lord  dat  reigns  on  high ! 

De  Debbie  's  fai'ly  skeered  to  def,  he  done  gone  flyin'  by  ; 

1  know'd  he   couldn'  stand    dat  pra'r,   I  felt  my  Marster 

nigh! 


1 88  DIALECT   POEMS. 

You,  Dinah  ;  ain't  you  'shamed,  now,  dat  you  didn'  trust  to 

grace  ? 
I  heerd  you  thrashin'  th'u'  de  bushes  when  he  showed  his 

face  ! 
You  fool,  you  think  de  Debbie  couldn't  beat  j0#  in  a  race  ? 

I  tell  you,  Dinah,  jes'  as  shuh  as  you  is  standin'  dar, 

When  folks  starts  prayin',  answer-angels  drops  down  th'u' 

de  a'r. 
Yas,  Dinah,  whar  'ouldyou  be  now^jes1  'ceptirtfur  datprd'r  f 

BALTIMORE,  1875. 


UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 


These  unrevised  poems  are  not  necessarily  exponents  of  Mr. 
Lanier's  later  teaching,  but  are  offered  as  examples  of  his 
youthful  spirit,  his  earlier  methods  and  his  instructive  growth. 
To  many  friends  they  present  in  addition  a  wealth  of  dear  asso 
ciations.  But,  putting  Mr.  Lanier  upon  trial  as  an  artist,  it  is 
fair  to  remember  that  probably  none  of  these  poems  would  have 
been  republished  by  him  without  material  alterations,  the 
slightest  of  which  no  other  hand  can  be  authorized  to  make. 


THE  JACQUERIE— A  FRAGMENT.  191 


THE  JACQUERIE-A  FRAGMENT. 

CHAPTER   I. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  a  Dawn,  all  red  and  bright 
Leapt  on  the  conquered  ramparts  of  the  Night, 
And  flamed,  one  brilliant  instant,  on  the  world, 
Then  back  into  the  historic  moat  was  hurled 
And  Night  was  King  again,  for  many  years. 
— Once  on  a  time  the  Rose  of  Spring  blushed  out 
But  Winter  angrily  withdrew  it  back 
Into  his  rough  new-bursten  husk,  and  shut 
The  stern  husk-leaves,  and  hid  it  many  years. 
— Once  Famine  tricked  himself  with  ears  of  corn, 
And  Hate  strung  flowers  on  his  spiked  belt, 
And  glum  Revenge  in  silver  lilies  pranked  him, 
And  Lust  put  violets  on  his  shameless  front, 
And  all  minced  forth  o'  the  street  like  holiday  folk 
That  sally  off  afield  on  Summer  morns. 
— Once  certain  hounds  that  knew  of  many  a  chase, 
And  bare  great  wounds  of  antler  and  of  tusk 
That  they  had  ta'en  to  give  a  lord  some  sport, 
— Good  hounds,  that  would  have  died  to  give  lords  sport- 
Were  so  bewrayed  and  kicked  by  these  same  lords 
That  all  the  pack  turned  tooth  o'  the  knights  and  bit 
As  knights  had  been  no  better  things  than  boars, 
And  took  revenge  as  bloody  as  a  man's, 
Unhoundlike,  sudden,  hot  i'  the  chops,  and  sweet. 
— Once  sat  a  falcon  on  a  lady's  wrist, 
Seeming  to  doze,  with  wrinkled  eye-lid  drawn, 
But  dreaming  hard  of  hoods  and  slaveries 
And  of  dim  hungers  in  his  heart  and  wings. 


192  UNRE VISED   EARLY  POEMS. 

Then,  while  the  mistress  gazed  above  for  game, 

Sudden  he  flew  into  her  painted  face 

And  hooked  his  horn-claws  in  her  lily  throat 

And  drove  his  beak  into  her  lips  and  eyes 

In  fierce  and  hawkish  kissing  that  did  scar 

And  mar  the  lady's  beauty  evermore. 

— And  once  while  Chivalry  stood  tall  and  lithe 

And  flashed  his  sword  above  the  stricken  eyes 

Of  all  the  simple  peasant-folk  of  France  : 

While  Thought  was  keen  and  hot  and  quick, 

And  did  not  play,  as  in  these  later  days, 

Like  summer-lightning  flickering  in  the  west 

— As  little  dreadful  as  if  glow-worms  lay 

In  the  cool  and  watery  clouds  and  glimmered  weak- 

But  gleamed  and  struck  at  once  or  oak  or  man, 

And  left  not  space  for  Time  to  wave  his  wing 

Betwixt  the  instantaneous  flash  and  stroke  : 

While  yet  the  needs  of  life  were  brave  and  fierce 

And  did  not  hide  their  deeds  behind  their  words, 

And  logic  came  not  'twixt  desire  and  act, 

And  Want-and-Take  was  the  whole  Form  of  life  : 

While  Love  had  fires  a-burning  in  his  veins, 

And  hidden  Hate  could  flash  into  revenge  : 

Ere  yet  young  Trade  was  'ware  of  his  big  thews 

Or  dreamed  that  in  the  bolder  afterdays 

He  would  hew  down  and  bind  old  Chivalry 

And  drag  him  to  the  highest  height  of  fame 

And  plunge  him  thence  in  the  sea  of  still  Romance 

To  lie  for  aye  in  never-rusted  mail 

Gleaming  through  quiet  ripples  of  soft  songs 

And  sheens  of  old  traditionary  tales  ; — 

On  such  a  time,  a  certain  May  arose 

From  out  that  blue  Sea  that  between  five  lands 

Lies  like  a  violet  midst  of  five  large  leaves, 

Arose  from  out  this  violet  and  flew  on 


THE  JACQUERIE — A   FRAGMENT.  193 

And  stirred  the  spirits  of  the  woods  of  France 

And  smoothed  tho  brows  of  moody  Auvergne  hills, 

And  wrought  warm  sea-tints  into  maidens'  eyes, 

And  calmed  the  \vordy  air  of  market-towns 

With  faint  suggestions  blown  from  distant  buds, 

Until  the  land  seemed  a  mere  dream  of  land, 

And,  in  this  dream-field  Life  sat  like  a  dove 

And  cooed  across  unto  her  dove-mate  Death, 

Brooding,  pathetic,  by  a  river^  lone. 

Oh,  sharper  tangs  pierced  through  this  perfumed  May, 

Strange  aches  sailed  by  with  odors  on  the  wind 

As  when  we  kneel  in  flowers  that  grow  on  graves 

Of  friends  who  died  unworthy  of  our  love. 

King  John  of  France  was  proving  such  an  ache 

In  English  prisons  wide  and  fair  and  grand, 

Whose  long  expanses  of  green  park  and  chace 

Did  ape  large  liberty  with  such  success 

As  smiles  of  irony  ape  smiles  of  love. 

Down  from  the  oaks  of  Hertford  Castle  park, 

Double  with  warm  rose-breaths  of  southern  Spring 

Came  rumors,  as  if  odors  too  had  thorns, 

Sharp  rumors,  how  the  three  Estates  of  France, 

Like  old  Three-headed  Cerberus  of  Hell 

Had  set  upon  the  Duke  of  Normandy, 

Their  rightful  Regent,  snarled  in  his  great  face, 

Snapped  jagged  teeth  in  inch-breadth  of  his  throat; 

And  blown  such  hot  and  savage  breath  upon  him, 

That  he  had  tossed  great  sops  of  royalty 

Unto  the  clamorous,  three-mawed  baying  beast. 

And  was  not  further  on  his  way  withal, 

And  had  but  changed  a  snarl  into  a  growl : 

How  Arnold  de  Cervolles  had  ta'en  the  track 

That  war  had  burned  along  the  unhappy  land, 

Shouting,  since  France  is  then  too  poor  to  pay 

The  soldiers  that  have  bloody  devoir  done* 


194  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 

And  since  needs  must,  pardie  !  a  man  must  eat, 

Arm ,  gentlemen  !  swords  slice  as  well  as  knives  / 

And  so  had  tempted  stout  men  from  the  ranks, 

And  now  was  adding  robbers'  waste  to  war's, 

Stealing  the  leavings  of  remorseless  battle, 

And  making  gaunter  the  gaunt  bones  of  want : 

How  this  Cervolles  (called  "  Arch-priest  "  by  the  mass) 

Through  warm  Provence  had  marched  and  menace  made 

Against  Pope  Innocent  at  Avignon, 

And  how  the  Pope  nor  ate  nor  drank  nor  slept, 

Through  godly  fear  concerning  his  red  wines. 

For  if  these  knaves  should  sack  hi^  holy  house 

And  all  the  blessed  casks  be  knocked  o'  the  head, 

Horrendum  !  all  his  Holiness'  drink  to  be 

Profanely  guzzled  down  the  reeking  throats 

Of  scoundrels,  and  inflame  them  on  to  seize 

The  massy  coffers  of  the  Church's  gold, 

And  steal,  mayhap,  the  carven  silver  shrine 

And  all  the  golden  crucifixes  ?     No  ! — 

And  so  the  holy  father  Pope  made  stir 

And  had  sent  forth  a  legate  to  Cervolles, 

And  treated  with  him,  and  made  compromise, 

And,  last,  had  bidden  all  the  Arch-priest's  troop 

To  come  and  banquet  with  him  in  his  house, 

Where  they  did  wassail  high  by  night  and  day 

And  Father  Pope  sat  at  the  board  and  carved 

Midst  jokes  that  flowed  full  greasily, 
And  priest  and  soldier  trolled  good  songs  for  mass, 
And  all  the  prayers  the  Priests  made  were,  pray,  drink, 
And  all  the  oaths  the  Soldiers  swore  were,  drink  I 
Till  Mirth  sat  like  a  jaunty  postilion 
Upon  the  back  of  Time  and  urged  him  on 
With  piquant  spur,  past  chapel  and  past  cross  : 
How  Charles,  King  of  Navarre,  in  long  duress 
By  mandate  of  King  John  within  the  walls 


THE  JACQUERIE — A  FRAGMENT.  195 

Of  Crevacceur  and  then  of  strong  Allures, 

In  taithful  ward  of  Sir  Tristan  du  Bois, 

Was  now  escaped,  had  supped  with  Guy  Kyrec, 

Had  now  a  pardon  of  the  Regent  Duke 

By  half  compulsion  of  a  Paris  mob, 

Had  turned  the  people's  love  upon  himself 

By  smooth  harangues,  and  now  was  bold  to  claim 

That  France  was  not  the  Kingdom  of  King  John, 

But,  By  our  Lady,  his,  by  right  and  worth, 

And  so  was  plotting  treason  in  the  State, 

And  laughing  at  weak  Charles  of  Normandy. 

Nay,  these  had  been  like  good  news  to  the  King, 

Were  any  man  but  bold  enough  to  tell 

The  King  what  [bitter]  sayings  men  had  made 

And  hawked  augmenting  up  and  down  the  land 

Against  the  barons  and  great  lords  of  France 

That  fled  from  English  arrows  at  Poictiers. 

Poictiers,  Poictiers  :  this  grain  i'  the  eye  of  France 

Had  swelled  it  to  a  big  and  bloodshot  ball 

That  looked  with  rage  upon  a  world  askew. 

Poictiers'  disgrace  was  now  but  two  years  old, 

Yet  so  outrageous  rank  and  full  was  grown 

That  France  was  wholly  overspread  with  shade, 

And  bitter  fruits  lay  on  the  untilled  ground 

That  stank  and  bred  so  foul  contagious  smells 

That  not  a  nose  in  France  but  stood  awry, 

Nor  boor  that  cried  not  faugh  !  upon  the  airc 

CHAPTER   II. 

FRANCISCAN  friar  John  de  Rochetaillade 

With  gentle  gesture  lifted  up  his  hand 

And  poised  it  high  above  the  steady  eyes 

Of  a  great  crowd  that  thronged  the  market-place 

In  fair  Clermont  to  hear  him  prophesy. 


196  UNREVISED   EARLY  POEMS. 

Midst  of  the  crowd  old  Gris  Grillon,  the  maimed, 

— A  wretched  wreck  that  fate  had  floated  out 

From  the  drear  storm  of  battle  at  Poictiers. 

A  living  man  whose  larger  moiety 

Was  dead  and  buried  on  the  battle-field— 

A  grisly  trunk,  without  or  arms  or  legs, 

And  scarred  with  hoof-cuts  over  cheek  and  brow, 

Lay  in  his  wicker-cradle,  smiling. 

"Jacques," 

Quoth  he,  "  My  son,  I  would  behold  this  priest 
That  is  not  fat,  and  loves  not  wine,  and  fasts, 
And  stills  the  folk  with  waving  of  his  hand, 
And  threats  the  knights  and  thunders  at  the  Pope. 
Make  way  for  Gris,  ye  who  are  whole  of  limb  I 
Set  me  on  yonder  ledge,  that  I  may  see." 
Forthwith  a  dozen  horny  hands  reached  out 
And  lifted  Gris  Grillon  upon  the  ledge, 
Whereon  he  lay  and  overlooked  the  crowd, 
And  from  the  gray-grown  hedges  of  his  brows 
Shot  forth  a  glance  against  the  friar's  eye 
That  struck  him  like  an  arrow. 

Then  the  friar, 

With  voice  as  low  as  if  a  maiden  hummed 
Love-songs  of  Provence  in  a  mild  day-dream  : 
*'  And  when  he  broke  the  second  seal,  I  heard 
The  second  beast  say,  Come  and  see. 

And  then 

Went  out  another  horse,  and  he  was  red. 
And  unto  him  that  sat  thereon  was  given 
To  take  the  peace  of  earth  away,  and  set 
Men  killing  one  another  :  and  they  gave 
To  him  a  mighty  sword." 

The  friar  paused 

And  pointed  round  the  circle  of  sad  eyes. 
"  There  is  no  face  of  man  or  woman  here 


THE  JACQUERIE — A   FRAGMENT.  197 

But  showeth  print  of  the  hard  hoof  of  war. 
Ah,  yonder  leaneth  limbless  Gris  Grillon. 
Friends,  Gris  Grillon  is  France. 

Good  France  ;  my  France, 
Wilt  never  walk  on  glory's  hills  again  ? 
Wilt  never  work  among  thy  vines  again  ? 
Art  footless  and  art  handless  evermore  ? 
— Thou  felon,  War,  I  do  arraign  thee  now 
Of  mayhem  of  the  four  main  limbs  of  France  ! 
Thou  old  red  criminal,  stand  forth  ;  I  charge 
— But  O,  I  am  too  utter  sorrowful 
To  urge  large  accusation  now. 

Nathless, 

My  work  to-day,  is  still  more  grievous.     Hear ! 
The  stains  that  war  hath  wrought  upon  the  land 
Show  but  as  faint  white  flecks,  if  seen  o'  the  side 
Of  those  blood-covered  images  that  stalk 
Through  yon  cold  chambers  of  the  future,  as 
The  prophet-mood,  now  stealing  on  my  soul, 
Reveals  them,  marching,  marching,  marching.     See  ! 
There  go  the  kings  of  France,  in  piteous  file. 
The  deadly  diamonds  shining  in  their  crowns 
Do  wound  the  foreheads  of  their  Majesties 
And  glitter  through  a  setting  of  blood-gouts 
As  if  they  smiled  to  think  how  men  are  slain 
By  the  sharp  facets  of  the  gem  of  power, 
And  how  the  kings  of  men  are  slaves  of  stones. 
But  look  !     The  long  procession  of  the  kings 
Wavers  and  stops  ;  the  world  is  full  of  noise, 
The  ragged  peoples  storm  the  palaces,. 
They  rave,  they  laugh,  they  thirst,  they  lap  the  stream 
That  trickles  from  the  regal  vestments  down, 
And,  lapping,  smack  their  heated  chaps  for  more, 
And  ply  their  daggers  for  it,  till  the  kings 
All  die  and  lie  in  a  crooked  sprawl  of  death, 


198  UNREVISED   EARLY  POEMS. 

Ungainly,  foul,  and  stiTas  nny  heap 
Of  villeins  rotting  on  a  battle-fii  Id 

'T  is  true,  that  when  these  things  have  come  to  pass 
Then  never  a  kin£  shall  rule  again  in  France, 
For  every  villein  shall  be  king  in  France  : 
And  who  hath  lordsh  p  in  him,  whether  born 
In  hedge  or  si  ki.  n  'oed,  shall  be  a  lord  : 
And  queens  shall  be  as  thick  i'  the  land  as  wives, 
And  all  the  maids  shall  maids  of  honor  be  : 
And  high  and  low  shall  lommune  solemnly: 
And  stars  and  stones  shall  have  free  interview. 
But  woe  is  me,  'tis  also  piteous  true 
That  ere  this  gracious  time  tliall  visit  France, 
Your  graves,  I)e'o\ed,  shall  be  some  centuries  old, 
And  so  your  children's,  and  th,  ir  children's  graves 
And  many  generations'. 

Ye,  O  ye 

Shall  grieve,  and  ye  shall  grieve,  and  ye  shall  grieve. 
Your  Life  shall  bend  and  o'er  his  shuttle  toil, 
A  weaver  weaving  at  the  loom  of  grief. 
Your  Life  shall  sweat  'twixt  anvil  and  hot  forge, 
An  armorer  working  at  the  sword  of  grief. 
Your  Life  shall  moil  i'  the  ground,  and  plant  his  seed, 
A  farmer  foisoning  a  huge  crop  of  grief. 
Your  Life  shall  chaffer  in  the  market-place, 
A  merchant  trading  in  the  goods  of  grief. 
Your  Life  shall  go  to  battle  with  his  bow, 
A  soldier  fighting  in  defence  of  grief. 
By  every  rudder  that  divides  the  seas, 
Tall  Grief  shall  stand,  the  helmsman  of  the  ship. 
By  every  wain  that  jolts  along  the  roads, 
Stout  Grief  shall  walk,  the  driver  of  the  team. 
Midst  every  herd  of  cattle  on  the  hills, 
Dull  Grief  shall  lie,  the  herdsman  of  the  drove. 


THE  JACQUERIE — A  FRAGMENT.  199 

Oh  Grief  shall  grind  your  bread  and  play  your  lutes 
And  marry  you  and  bury  you. 

— How  else  ? 

Who's  here  in  France,  can  win  her  people's  faith 
And  stand  in  front  and  lead  the  people  on  ? 
Where  is  the  Church  ? 

The  Church  is  far  too  fat. 
Not,  mark,  by  robust  swelling  of  the  thews, 
But  puffed  and  flabby  large  with  gross  increase 
Of  wine-fat,  plague-fat,  dropsy-fat. 

O  shame, 

Thou  Pope  that  cheatest  God  at  Avignon, 
Thou  that  shouldst  be  the  Father  of  the  world 
And  Regent  of  it  whilst  our  God  is  gone  ; 
Thou  that  shouldst  blaze  with  conferred  majesty 
And  smite  old  Lust-o'-the-Flesh  so  as  by  flame  ; 
Thou  that  canst  turn  thy  key  and  lock  Grief  up 
Or  turn  thy  key  and  unlock  Heaven's  Gate, 
Thou  that  shouldst  be  the  veritable  hand 
That  Christ  down-stretcheth  out  of  heaven  yet 
To  draw  up  him  that  fainteth  to  His  heart, 
Thou  that  shouldst  bear  thy  fruit,  yet  virgin  live, 
As  she  that  bore  a  man  yet  sinned  not, 
Thou  that  shouldst  challenge  the  most  special  eyes 
Of  Heaven  and  Earth  and  Hell  to  mark  thee,  since 
Thou  shouldst  be  Heaven's  best  captain,  Earth's  best  friend, 
And  Hell's  best  enemy — false  Pope,  false  Pope, 
The  world,  thy  child,  is  sick  and  like  to  die, 
But  thou  art  dinner-drowsy  and  cannot  come  : 
And  Life  is  sore  beset  and  crieth  help  ! 
But  thou  brook'st  not  disturbance  at  thy  wine  : 
And  France  is  wild  for  one  to  lead  her  souls  ; 
But  thou  art  huge  and  fat  and  laggest  back 
Among  the  remnants  of  forsaken  camps. 
Thou'rt  not  God's  Pope,  thou  art  the  Devil's  Pope. 


200  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 

Thou  art  first  Squire  to  that  most  puissant  knight, 
Lord  Satan,  who  thy  faithful  squireship  long 
Hath  watched  and  well  shall  guerdon. 

Ye  sad  souls, 

So  faint  with  work  ye  love  not,  so  thin-worn 
With  miseries  ye  wrought  not,  so  outraged 
By  strokes  of  ill  that  pass  th'  ill-doers'  heads 
And  cleave  the  innocent,  so  desperate  tired 
Of  insult  that  doth  day  by  day  abuse 
The  humblest  dignity  of  humblest  men, 
Ye  cannot  call  toward  the  Church  for  help. 
The  Church  already  is  o'erworked  with  care 
Of  its  dyspeptic  stomach. 

Ha,  the  Church 
Forgets  about  eternity. 

I  had 
A  vision  of  forgetfulness. 

O  Dre<»m 

Born  of  a  dream,  as  yonder  cloud  is  born 
Of  water  which  is  born  of  cloud  ! 

I  thought 

I  saw  the  moonlight  lying  large  and  calm 
Upon  the  unthrobbing  bosom  of  the  earth, 
As  a  great  diamond  glittering  on  a  shroud. 
A  sense  of  breathlessness  stilled  all  the  world. 
Motion  stood  dreaming  he  was  changed  to  Rest, 
And  Life  asleep  did  fancy  he  was  Death. 
A  quick  small  shadow  spotted  the  white  world  ; 
Then  instantly  'twas  huge,  and  huger  grew 
By  instants  till  it  did  o'ergloom  all  space. 
I  lifted  up  mine  eyes — O  thou  just  God  I 
I  saw  a  spectre  with  a  million  heads 
Come  frantic  downward  through  the  universe, 
And  all  the  mouths  of  it  were  uttering  cries, 
Wherein  was  a  sharp  agony,  and  yet 


THE  JACQUERIE — A  FRAGMENT.  2OI 

The  cries  were  much  like  laughs  :  as  if  Pain  laugned. 
Its  myriad  lips  were  blue,  and  sometimes  they 
Closed  fast  and  only  moaned  dim  sounds  that  shaped 
Themselves  to  one  word,  Homeless,  and  the  stars 
Did  utter  back  the  moan,  and  the  great  hills 
Did  bellow  it,  and  then  the  stars  and  hills 
Bandied  the  grief  o'  the  ghost  'twixt  heaven  and  earth. 
The  spectre  sank,  and  lay  upon  the  air, 
And  brooded,  level,  close  upon  the  earth, 
With  all  the  myriad  heads  just  over  me. 
I  glanced  in  all  the  eyes  and  marked  that  some 
Did  glitter  with  a  flame  of  lunacy, 
And  some  were  soft  and  false  as  feigning  love, 
And  some  were  blinking  with  hypocrisy, 
And  some  were  overfilmed  by  sense,  and  some 
Blazed  with  ambition's  wild,  unsteady  fire, 
And  some  were  burnt  i'  the  sockets  black,  and  some 
Were  dead  as  embers  when  the  fire  is  out. 
A  curious  zone  circled  the  Spectre's  waist, 
Which  seemed  with  strange  device  to  symbol  Time. 
It  was  a  silver-gleaming  thread  of  day 
Spiral  about  a  jet-black  band  of  night. 
This  zone  seemed  ever  to  contract  and  all 
The  frame  with  momentary  spasms  heaved 
In  the  strangling  traction  which  did  never  cease. 
I  cried  unto  the  spectre,  Time  hath  bound 
Thy  body  with  the  fibre  of  his  hours. 
Then  rose  a  multitude  of  mocking  sounds, 
And  some  mouths  spat  at  me  and  cried  thou  fool, 
And  some,  thou  liest,  and  some,  he  dreams  :  and  then 
Some  hands  uplifted  certain  bowls  they  bore 
To  lips  that  writhed  but  drank  with  eagerness. 
And  some  played  curious  viols,  shaped  like  hearts 
And  stringed  with  loves,  to  light  and  ribald  tunes, 
And  other  hands  slit  throats  with  knives. 


202  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 

And  others  patted  all  the  painted  cheeks 
In  reach,  and  others  stole  what  others  had 
Unseen,  or  boldly  snatched  at  alien  rights, 
And  some  o*  the  heads  did  vie  in  a  foolish  game 
Of  which  could  hold  itself  the  highest,  and 
Of  which  one's  neck  was  stiff  the  longest  time. 

And  then  the  sea  in  silence  wove  a  veil 
Of  mist,  and  breathed  it  upward  and  about, 
And  waved  and  wound  it  softly  round  the  world, 
And  meshed  my  dream  i'  the  vague  and  endless  folds, 
And  a  light  wind  arose  and  blew  these  off, 
And  I  awoke. 

The  many  heads  are  priests 
That  have  forgot  eternity  :  and  Time 

Hath  caught  and  bound  them  with  a  withe 
Into  a  fagot  huge,  to  burn  in  hell. 
— Now  if  the  priesthood  put  such  shame  upon 
Your  cry  for  leadership,  can  better  help 
Come  out  of  knighthood  ? 

Lo  !  you  smile,  you  boors  ? 
You  villeins  smile  at  knighthood  ? 

Now,  thou  Franc* 

That  wert  the  mother  of  fair  chivalry, 
Unclose  thine  eyes,  unclose  thine  eyes,  here,  see, 
Here  stand  a  herd  of  knaves  that  laugh  to  scorn 
Thy  gentlemen  I 

O  contumely  hard, 

0  bitterness  of  last  disgrace,  O  sting 

That  stings  the  coward  knights  of  lost  Poictiers ! 

1  would — "  but  now  a  murmur  rose  i'  the  crowd 
Of  angry  voices,  and  the  friar  leapt 

From  where  he  stood  to  preach  and  pressed  a  path 
Betwixt  the  mass  that  way  the  voices  came- 


THE  JACQUERIE — A  FRAGMENT.  203 


CHAPTER   III. 

LORD  RAOUL  was  riding  castleward  from  field. 

At  left  hand  rode  his  lady  and  at  right 

His  fool  whom  he  loved  better  ;  and  his  bird, 

His  fine  ger-falcon  best  beloved  of  all, 

Sat  hooded  on  his  wrist  and  gently  swayed 

To  the  undulating  amble  of  the  horse. 

Guest-knights  and  huntsmen  and  a  noisy  train 

Of  loyal-stomached  flatterers  and  their  squires 

Clattered  in  retinue,  and  aped  his  pace, 

And  timed  their  talk  by  his,  and  worked  their  eyes 

By  intimation  of  his  glance,  with  great 

And  drilled  precision. 

Then  said  the  fool : 

"  'Twas  a  brave  flight,  my  lord,  that  last  one !  brave. 
Didst  note  the  heron  once  did  turn  about, 
And  show  a  certain  anger  with  his  wing, 
And  make  as  if  he  almost  dared,  not  quite, 
To  strike  the  falcon,  ere  the  falcon  him? 
A  foolish  damnable  advised  bird, 
Yon  heron  !     What  ?     Shall  herons  grapple  hawks  ? 
God  made  the  herons  for  the  hawks  to  strike, 
And  hawk  and  heron  made  he  for  lords'  sport." 
"  What  then,  my  honey-tongued  Fool,  that  knowest 
God's  purposes,  what  made  he  fools  for  ?  " 

"For 

To  counsel  lords,  my  lord.     Wilt  hear  me  prove 
Fools'  counsel  better  than  wise  men's  advice  ?  " 
"Aye,  prove  it.     If  thy  logic  fail,  wise  fool, 
I'll  cause  two  wise  men  whip  thee  soundly." 

"So: 

Wise  men  are  prudent :  prudent  men  have  cart 
Ftr  their  own  proper  interest ;  therefore  they 


204  UNREVISED   EARLY   P.OEMS. 

Ad-vise  their  own  advantage,  not  another's. 

But  fools  are  careless  :  careless  men  care  not 

For  their  own  proper  interest ;  therefore  they 

Advise  their friend 's  advantage,  not  their  own. 

Now  hear  the  commentary,  Cousin  Raoul. 

This  fool,  unselfish,  counsels  thee,  his  lord, 

Go  not  through  yonder  square,  where,  as  thou  see'st 

Yon  herd  of  villeins,  crick-necked  all  with  strain 

Of  gazing  upward,  stand,  and  gaze,  and  take 

With  open  mouth  and  eye  and  ear,  the  quips 

And  heresies  of  John  de  Rochetaillade." 

Lord  Raoul  half  turned  him  in  his  saddle  round, 

And  looked  upon  his  fool  and  vouchsafed  him 

What  moiety  of  fastidious  wonderment 

A  generous  nobleness  could  deign  to  give 

To  such  humility,  with  eye  superb 

Where  languor  and  surprise  both  showed  themselves. 

Each  deprecating  t'other. 

"  Now,  dear  knave, 

Be  kind  and  tell  me — tell  me  quickly,  too, — 
Some  proper  reasonable  ground  or  cause, 
Nay,  tell  me  but  some  shadow  of  some  cause, 
Nay,  hint  me  but  a  thin  ghost's  dream  of  cause, 
(So  will  I  thee  absolve  from  being  whipped) 
Why  I,  Lord  Raoul,  should  turn  my  horse  aside 
From  riding  by  yon  pitiful  villein  gang, 
Or  ay,  by  God,  from  riding  o'er  their  heads 
If  so  my  humor  serve,  or  through  their  bodies, 
Or  miring  fetlocks  in  their  nasty  brains, 
Or  doing  aught  else  I  will  in  my  Clermont  ? 
Do  me  this  grace,  mine  Idiot." 

"  Please  thy  Wisdom 

An  thou  dost  ride  through  this  same  gang  of  boors, 
'Tis  my  fool's-prophecy,  some  ill  shall  fall. 
Lord  Raoul,  yon  mass  of  various  flesh  is  fused 


THE  JACQUERIE — A   FRAGMENT.  2O5 

And  melted  quite  in  one  by  white-hot  words 

The  friar  speaks.     Sir,  sawest  thou  ne'er,  sometimes, 

Thine  armorer  spit  on  iron  when  'twas  hot, 

And  how  the  iron  flung  the  insult  back, 

Hissing?     So  this  contempt  now  in  thine  eye, 

If  it  shall  fall  on  yonder  heated  surface 

May  bounce  back  upward.     Well:  and  then?     What  then? 

Why,  if  thou  cause  thy  folk  to  crop  some  villein's  ears, 

So,  evil  falls,  and  a  fool  foretells  the  truth. 

Or  if  some  erring  crossbow-bolt  should  break 

Thine  unarmed  head,  shot  from  behind  a  house, 

So,  evil  falls,  and  a  fool  foretells  the  truth." 

"  Well,"  quoth  Lord  Raoul,  with  languid  utterance, 

6t  'Tis  very  well — and  thou  'rt  a  foolish  fool, 

Nay,  thou  art  Folly's  perfect  witless  man, 

Stupidity  doth  madly  dote  on  thee, 

And  Idiocy  doth  fight  her  for  thy  love, 

Yet  Silliness  doth  love  thee  best  of  all, 

And  while  they  quarrel,  snatcheth  thee  to  her 

And  saith  Ah  !  'tts  my  sweetest  No-brains  :  mine  t 

— And  'tis  my  mood  to-day  some  ill  shall  fall." 

And  there  right  suddenly  Lord  Raoul  gave  rein 

And  galloped  straightway  to  the  crowded  square, 

— What  time  a  strange  light  flickered  in  the  eyes 

Of  the  calm  fool,  that  was  not  folly's  gleam, 

But  more  like  wisdom's  smile  at  plan  well  laid 

And  end  well  compassed.     In  the  noise  of  hoofs 

Secure,  the  fool  low-muttered  :  "  Folly's  love! 

So  :  Silliness1  sweetheart  :  no-brains  :  quoth  my  Lord. 

Why,  how  intolerable  an  ass  is  he 

Whom  Silliness'  sweetheart  drives  so,  by  the  ear  I 

Thou  languid,  lordly,  most  heart-breaking  Nought! 

Thou  bastard  zero,  that  hast  come  to  power, 

Nothing's  right  issue  failing  !     Thou  mere  '  pooh ' 

That  Life  hath  uttered  in  some  moment's  pet. 


206  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 

And  then  forgot  she  uttered  thee  !     Thou  gap 
In  time,  thou  little  notch  in  circumstance  I  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LORD  RAOUL  drew  rein  with  all  his  company, 
And  urged  his  horse  i'  the  crowd,  to  gain  fair  view 
Of  him  that  spoke,  and  stopped  at  last,  and  sat 
Still,  underneath  where  Gris  Grillon  was  laid, 
And  heard,  somewhile,  with  languid  scornful  gaze, 
The  friar  putting  blame  on  priest  and  knight. 
But  presently,  as  'twere  in  weariness, 
He  gazed  about,  and  then  above,  and  so 
Made  mark  of  Gris  Grillon. 

"  So,  there,  old  man, 
Thou  hast  more  brows  than  legs  !  " 

"  I  would,"  quoth  Gris 
"  That  thou,  upon  a  certain  time  I  wot, 
Hadst  had  less  legs  and  bigger  brows,  my  Lord  ! " 
Then  all  the  flatterers  and  their  squires  cried  out 
Solicitous,  with  various  voice,  "  Go  to, 
Old  Rogue,"  or  "  Shall  I  brain  him,  my  good  Lord  ?  n 
Or,  "  So,  let  me  but  chuck  him  from  his  perch," 
Or,  "Slice  his  tongue  to  piece  his  leg  withal," 
Or,  "  Send  his  eyes  to  look  for  his  missing  arms." 
But  my  Lord  Raoul  was  in  the  mood,  to-day, 
Which  craves  suggestions  simply  with  a  view 
To  flout  them  in  the  face,  and  so  waved  hand 
Backward,  and  stayed  the  on-pressing  sycophants 
Eager  to  buy  rich  praise  with  bravery  cheap. 
"I  would  know  why," — he  said — "  thou  wishedst  me 
Less  legs  and  bigger  brows  ;  and  when  ?  " 

"  Wouldst  know  ? 

Learn  then,"  cried  Gris  Grillon  and  stirred  himself, 
In  a  great  spasm  of  passion  mixed  with  pain  ; 


THE  JACQUERIE — A  FRAGMENT.  207 

"  An  thou  hadst  had  more  courage  and  less  speed, 

Then,  ah  my  God  !  then  could  not  I  have  been 

That  piteous  gibe  of  a  man  thou  see  'st  I  am. 

Sir,  having  no  disease,  nor  any  taint 

Nor  old  hereditament  of  sin  or  shame, 

—But,  feeling  the  brave  bound  and  energy 

Of  daring  health  that  leaps  along  the  veins— 

As  a  hart  upon  his  river  banks  at  morn, 

— Sir,  wild  with  the  urgings  and  hot  strenuous  beats 

Of  manhood's  heart  in  this  full-sinewed  breast 

Which  thou  may'st  even  now  discern  is  mine, 

— Sir,  full  aware,  each  instant  in  each  day, 

Of  motions  of  great  muscles,  once  were  mine, 

And  thrill  of  tense  thew-knots,  and  stinging  sense 

Of  nerves,  nice,  capable  and  delicate  : 

— Sir,  visited  each  hour  by  passions  great 

That  lack  all  instrument  of  utterance, 

Passion  of  love — that  hath  no  arm  to  curve  ; 

Passion  of  speed — that  hath  no  limb  to  stretch  ; 

Yea,  even  that  poor  feeling  of  desire 

Simply  to  turn  me  from  this  side  to  that, 

(Which  brooded  on,  into  wild  passion  grows 

By  reason  of  the  impotence  that  broods) 

Balked  of  its  end  and  unachievable 

Without  assistance  of  some  foreign  arm, 

— Sir,  moved  and  thrilled  like  any  perfect  man, 

O,  trebly  moved  and  thrilled,  since  poor  desires 

That  are  of  small  import  to  happy  men 

Who  easily  can  compass  them,  to  me 

Become  mere  hopeless  Heavens  or  actual  Hells, 

— Sir,  strengthened  so  with  manhood's  seasoned  soul, 

I  lie  in  this  damned  cradle  day  and  night, 

Still,  still,  so  still,  my  Lord  :  less  than  a  babe 

In  powers  but  more  than  any  man  in  needs  ; 

Dreaming,  with  open  eye,  of  days  when  men 


208  UNREVISED   EARLY  POEMS. 

Have  fallen  cloven  through  steel  and  bone  and  flesh 
At  single  strokes  of  this — of  that  big  arm 
Once  wielded  aught  a  mortal  arm  might  wield, 
Wak'ing  a  prey  to  any  foolish  gnat 
That  wills  to  conquer  my  defenceless  brow 
And  sit  thereon  in  triumph  ;  hounded  ever 
By  small  necessities  of  barest  use 
.  Which,  since  I  cannot  compass  them  alone, 
Do  snarl  my  helplessness  into  mine  ear, 
Howling  behind  me  that  I  have  no  hands, 
And  yelping  round  me  that  I  have  no  feet : 
So  that  my  heart  is  stretched  by  tiny  ills 
That  are  so  much  the  larger  that  I  knew 
In  bygone  days  how  trifling  small  they  were  : 
— Dungeoned  in  wicker,  strong  as  'twere  in  stone ; 
— Fast  chained  with  nothing,  firmer  than  with  steel ; 
— Captive  in  limb,  yet  free  in  eye  and  ear, 
Sole  tenant  of  this  puny  Hell  in  Heaven  : 
— And  this — all  this — because  I  was  a  man  ! 
For,  in  the  battle — ha,  thou  know'st,  pale-face ! 
When  that  the  four  great  English  horsemen  bore 
So  bloodily  on  thee,  I  leapt  to  front 
To  front  of  thee — of  thee — and  fought  four  blades, 
Thinking  to  win  thee  time  to  snatch  thy  breath, 
And,  by  a  rearing  fore-hoof  stricken  down, 

Mine  eyes,  through  blood,  my  brain,  through  pain, 
—Midst  of  a  dim  hot  uproar  fainting  down — 
Were  'ware  of  thee,  far  rearward,  fleeing !     Hound !  * 

CHAPTER  V. 

THEN,  as  the  passion  of  old  Gris  Grillon 
A  wave  swift  swelling,  grew  to  highest  height 
And  snapped  a  foaming  consummation  forth 
With  salty  hissing,  came  the  friar  through 


THE  JACQUERIE— A  FRAGMENT. 

The  mass.     A  stillness  of  white  faces  wrought 
A  transient  death  on  all  the  hands  and  breasts 
Of  all  the  crowd,  and  men  and  women  stood, 
One  instant,  fixed,  as  they  had  died  upright. 
Then  suddenly  Lord  Raoul  rose  up  in  selle 
And  thrust  his  dagger  straight  upon  the  breast 
,Of  Gris  Grillon,  to  pin  him  to  the  wall  ; 
But  ere  steel-point  met  flesh,  tall  Jacques  Grillon 
Had  leapt  straight  upward  from  the  earth,  and  in 
The  self-same  act  had  whirled  his  bow  by  end 
With  mighty  whirr  about  his  head,  and  struck 
The  dagger  with  so  featly  stroke  and  full 
That  blade  flew  up  and  hilt  flew  down,  and  left 
Lord  Raoul  unfriended  of  his  weapon. 

Then 

The  fool  cried  shrilly,  "  Shall  a  knight  of  France 
Go  stabbing  his  own  cattle  ?  "     And  Lord  Raoul, 
Calm  with  a  changing  mood,  sat  still  and  called  : 
"Here,  huntsmen,  'tis  my  will  ye  seize  the  hind 
That  broke  my  dagger,  bind  him  to  this  tree 
And  slice  both  ears  to  hair-breadth  of  his  head, 
To  be  his  bloody  token  of  regret 
That  he  hath  put  them  to  so  foul  employ 
As  catching  villainous  breath  of  strolling  priests 
That  mouth  at  knighthood  and  defile  the  Church." 

The  knife [Rest  of  line  lost.] 

To  place  the  edge         ....        [Rest  of  line  lost.] 
Mary  !  the  blood  !  it  oozes  sluggishly, 
Scorning  to  come  at  call  of  blade  so  base. 
Sathanas  !     He  that  cuts  the  ear  has  left 
The  blade  sticking  at  midway,  for  to  turn 

And  ask  the  Duke  "  if  'tis  not  done 
Thus  far  with  nice  precision,"  and  the  Duke 
Leans  down  to  see,  and  cries,  "'tis  marvellous  nice, 
Shaved  as  thon  wert  ear-barber  by  profession  1 " 


210  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 

Whereat  one  witling  cries,  "  'tis  monstrous  fit, 

In  sooth,  a  shaven-pated  priest  should  have 

A  shaven-eared  audience  ;  "  and  another, 

"  Give  thanks,  thou  Jacques,  to  this  most  gracious  Duke 

That  rids  thee  of  the  life -long  dread  of  loss 

Of  thy  two  ears,  by  cropping  them  at  once  ; 

And  now  henceforth  full  safely  thou  may  'st  dare 

The  powerfullest  Lord  in  France  to  touch 

An  ear  of  thine  ;  "  and  now  the  knave  o'  the  knife 

Seizes  the  handle  to  commence  again,  and  saws 

And    .     .     ha  !     Lift  up  thine  head,  O  Henry!     Friend! 

'Tis  Marie,  walking  midway  of  the  street, 

As  she  had  just  stepped  forth  from  out  the  gate 

Of  the  very,  very  Heaven  where  God  is, 

Still  glittering  with  the  God-shine  on  her  !     Look  I 

And  there  right  suddenly  the  fool  looked  up 

And  saw  the  crowd  divided  in  two  ranks. 

Raoul  pale-stricken  as  a  man  that  waits 

God's  first  remark  when  he  hath  died  into 

God's  sudden  presence,  saw  the  cropping  knave 

A-pause  with  knife  in  hand,  the  wondering  folk 

All  straining  forward  with  round-ringed  eyes, 

And  Gris  Grillon  calm  smiling  while  he  prayed 

The  Holy  Virgin's  blessing. 

Down  the  lane 

Betwixt  the  hedging  bodies  of  the  crowd, 
[Part  of  line  lost.]        ....        majesty 
[Part  of  line  lost.  J        .        .        a  spirit  pacing  on  the  top 
Of  springy  clouds,  and  bore  straight  on  toward 
The  Duke.     On  him  her  eyes  burned  steadily 
With  such  gray  fires  of  heaven-hot  command 
As  Dawn  burns  Night  away  with,  and  she  held 
Her  white  forefinger  quivering  aloft 
At  greatest  arm's-length  of  her  dainty  arm, 
In  menace  sweeter  than  a  kiss  could  be 


THE  JACQUERIE — A   FRAGMENT.  211 

And  terribler  than  sudden  whispers  are 

That  come  from  lips  unseen,  in  sunlit  room. 

So  with  the  spell  of  all  the  Powers  of  Sense 

That  e'er  have  swayed  the  savagery  of  hot  blood 

Raying  from  her  whole  body  beautiful, 

She  held  the  eyes  and  wills  of  all  the  crowd. 

Then  from  the  numbed  hand  of  him  that  cut, 

The  knife  dropped  down,  and  the  quick  fool  stole  in 

And  snatched  and  deftly  severed  all  the  withes 

Unseen,  and  Jacques  burst  forth  into  the  crowd, 

And  then  the  mass  completed  the  long  breath 

They  had  forgot  to  draw,  and  surged  upon 

The  centre  where  the  maiden  stood  with  sound 

Of  multitudes  of  blessings,  and  Lord  Raoul 

Rode  homeward,  silent  and  most  pale  and  strange, 

Deep-wrapt  in  moody  fits  of  hot  and  cold. 

(End  of  Chapter  V.) 
.  .  •  •  •  •  • 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1868. 


212  UNREVISED   EARLY  POEMS. 


SONG  FOR   "THE  JACQUERIE." 

MAY  the  maiden, 

Violet-laden 
Out  of  the  violet  sea, 

Comes  and  hovers 

Over  lovers, 
Over  thee,  Marie,  and  me, 

Over  me  and  thee. 

Day  the  stately, 

Sunken  lately 
Into  the  violet  sea, 

Backward  hovers 

Over  lovers, 
Over  thee,  Marie,  and  me, 

Over  me  and  thee. 

Night  the  holy, 

Sailing  slowly 
Over  the  violet  sea, 

Stars  uncovers 

Over  lovers, 
Stars  for  thee,  Marie,  and  me, 

Stars  for  me  and  thee. 


MACON,  GEORGIA,  1868. 


BETRAYAL.  213 


SONG  FOR  "  THE  JACQUERIE." 
BETRAYAL. 

THE  sun  has  kissed  the  violet  sea, 

And  burned  the  violet  to  a  rose. 

O  Sea  !  wouldst  thou  not  better  be 

Mere  violet  still  ?     Who  knows  ?  who  knows  ? 
Well  hides  the  violet  in  the  wood  : 
The  dead  leaf  wrinkles  her  a  hood, 
And  winter's  ill  is  violet's  good  ; 
But  the  bold  glory  of  the  rose, 
It  quickly  comes  and  quickly  goes- 
Red  petals  whirling  in  white  snows, 
Ah  me  1 

The  sun  has  burnt  the  rose-red  sea  : 

The  rose  is  turned  to  ashes  gray. 
O  Sea,  O  Sea,  mightst  thou  but  be 
The  violet  thou  hast  been  to-day ! 

The  sun  is  brave,  the  sun  is  bright, 
The  sun  is  lord  of  love  and  light ; 
But  after  him  it  cometh  night. 
Dim  anguish  of  the  lonesome  dark  !  — 
Once  a  girl's  body,  stiff  and  stark, 
Was  laid  in  a  tomb  without  a  mark, 
Ah  me  1 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1868. 


214  UNREVISED   EARLY  POEMS. 


SONG  FOR  "THE  JACQUERIE." 

THE  hound  was  cuffed,  the  hound  was  kicked, 
O'  the  ears  was  cropped,  o'  the  tail  was  nicked, 
(All.)  Oo-hoo-o,  howled  the  hound. 

The  hound  into  his  kennel  crept ; 
He  rarely  wept,  he  never  slept. 
His  mouth  he  always  open  kept 
Licking  his  bitter  wound, 

The  hound, 
{All.)  U-lu-lo,  howled  the  hound. 

A  star  upon  his  kennel  shone 
That  showed  the  hound  a  meat-bare  bone. 
(All.)          O  hungry  was  the  hound  ! 

The  hound  had  but  a  churlish  wit. 
He  seized  the  bone,  he  crunched,  he  bit. 
"  An  thou  wert  Master,  I  had  slit 

Thy  throat  with  a  huge  wound," 

Quo'  hound. 
(All.)  O,  angry  was  the  hound. 

The  star  in  castle-window  shone, 
The  Master  lay  abed,  alone. 
(All.)          Oh  ho,  why  not  ?  quo'  hound. 

He  leapt,  he  seized  the  throat,  he  tore 
The  Master,  head  from  neck,  to  floor, 
And  rolled  the  head  i'  the  kennel  door, 
And  fled  and  salved  his  wound, 

Good  hound ! 
(All.)  U-lu-lo,  howled  the  hound. 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1868. 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING.  21 5 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  OF 
STERLING  AND   SARAH   LANIER, 

SEPTEMBER  27,  1868. 

BY   THE   ELDEST   GRANDSON. 

A  RAINBOW  span  of  fifty  years, 

Painted  upon  a  cloud  of  tears, 

In  blue  for  hopes  and  red  for  fears, 

Finds  end  in  a  golden  hour  to-day. 
Ah,  you  to  our  childhood  the  legend  told, 
"  At  the  end  of  the  rainbow  lies  the  gold," 
And  now  in  our  thrilling  hearts  we  hold 

The  gold  that  never  will  pass  away. 

Gold  crushed  from  the  quartz  of  a  crystal  life, 
Gold  hammered  with  blows  of  human  strife, 
Gold  burnt  in  the  love  of  man  and  wife, 

Till  it  is  pure  as  the  very  flame  : 
Gold  that  the  miser  will  not  have, 
Gold  that  is  good  beyond  the  grave, 
Gold  that  the  patient  and  the  brave 

Amass,  neglecting  praise  and  blame. 

O  golden  hour  that  caps  the  time 

Since,  heart  to  heart  like  rhyme  to  rhyme, 

You  stood  and  listened  to  the  chime 

Of  inner  bells  by  spirits  rung, 
That  tinkled  many  a  secret  sweet 
Concerning  how  two  souls  should  meet, 
And  whispered  of  Time's  flying  feet 

With  a  most  piquant  silver  tongue. 


2l6  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 

O  golden  day, — a  golden  crown 

For  the  kingly  heads  that  bowed  not  down 

To  win  a  smile  or  'scape  a  frown, 

Except  the  smile  and  frown  of  Heaven ! 
Dear  heads,  still  dark  with  raven  hair  ; 
Dear  hearts,  still  white  in  spite  of  care  ; 
Dear  eyes,  still  black  and  bright  and  fair 

As  any  eyes  to  mortals  given  I 

Old  parents  of  a  restless  race, 
You  miss  full  many  a  bonny  face 
That  would  have  smiled  a  filial  grace 

Around  your  Golden  Wedding  wine. 
But  God  is  good  and  God  is  great. 
His  will  be  done,  if  soon  or  late. 
Your  dead  stand  happy  in  yon  Gate 

And  call  you  blessed  while  they  shine. 

So,  drop  the  tear  and  dry  the  eyes. 
Your  rainbow  glitters  in  the  skies. 
Here's  golden  wine  :  young,  old,  arise  : 

With  cups  as  full  as  our  souls,  we  say  : 
"  Two  Hearts,  that  wrought  with  smiles  through  tears 
This  rainbow  span  of  fifty  years, 
Behold  how  true,  true  love  appears 

True  gold  for  your  Golden  Wedding  day  I  " 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  September,  1868. 


STRANGE  JOKES. 


STRANGE  JOKES. 

WELL  :  Death  is  a  huge  omnivorous  Toad 
Grim  squatting  on  a  twilight  road. 
He  catcheth  all  that  Circumstance 

Hath  tossed  to  him. 
He  curseth  all  who  upward  glance 

As  lost  to  him. 

Once  in  a  whimsey  mood  he  sat 
And  talked  of  life,  in  proverbs  pat, 
To  Eve  in  Eden,—"  Death,  on  Life" — 

As  if  he  knew  ! 
And  so  he  toadied  Adam's  wife 

There,  in  the  dew. 

O  dainty  dew,  O  morning  dew 

That  gleamed  in  the  world's  first  dawn,  did  you 

And  the  sweet  grass  and  manful  oaks 

Give  lair  and  rest 
To  him  who  toadwise  sits  and  croaks 

His  death-behest  ? 

Who  fears  the  hungry  Toad  ?     Not  I  f 

He  but  unfetters  me  to  fly. 

The  German  still,  when  one  is  dead, 

Cries  out  "  Der  Tod  !  " 
But,  pilgrims,  Christ  will  walk  ahead 

And  clear  the  road. 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  July,  1867. 


2l8  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 


NIRVANA. 

THROUGH  seas  of  dreams  and  seas  of  phantasies, 
Through  seas  of  solitudes  and  vacancies, 
And  through  my  Self,  the  deepest  of  the  seas, 
I  strive  to  thee,  Nirvana. 

Oh  long  ago  the  billow-flow  of  sense, 
Aroused  by  passion's  windy  vehemence, 
Upbore  me  out  of  depths  to  heights  intense, 
But  not  to  thee,  Nirvana. 

By  waves  swept  on,  I  learned  to  ride  the  waves. 
I  served  my  masters  till  I  made  them  slaves. 
I  baffled  Death  by  hiding  in  his  graves, 
His  watery  graves,  Nirvana. 

And  once  I  clomb  a  mountain's  stony  crown 
And  stood,  and  smiled  no  smile  and  frowned  no  frown 
Noi  ate,  nor  drank,  nor  slept,  nor  faltered  down, 
Five  days  and  nights,  Nirvana. 

Sunrise  and  noon  and  sunset  and  strange  night 
And  shadow  of  large  clouds  and  faint  starlight 
And  lonesome  Terror  stalking  round  the  height, 
I  minded  not,  Nirvana. 

The  silence  ground  my  soul  keen  like  a  spear. 
My  bare  thought,  whetted  as  a  sword,  cut  sheer 
Through  time  and  life  and  flesh  and  death,  to  clear 
My  way  unto  Nirvana™ 


NIRVANA.  219 

I  slew  gross  bodies  of  old  ethnic  hates 

That  stirred  long  race-wars  betwixt  States  and  States, 

I  stood  and  scorned  these  foolish  dead  debates, 

Calmly,  calmly,  Nirvana. 

i 

I  smote  away  the  filmy  base  of  Caste. 
I  thrust  through  antique  blood  and  riches  vast, 
And  all  big  claims  of  the  pretentious  Past 
That  hindered  my  Nirvana. 

Then  all  fair  types,  of  form  and  sound  and  hue, 
Up-floated  round  my  sense  and  charmed  anew. 
— I  waved  them  back  into  the  void  blue  : 
I  love  them  not,  Nirvana. 

And  all  outrageous  ugliness  of  time, 
Excess  and  Blasphemy  and  squinting  Crime 
Beset  me,  but  I  kept  my  calm  sublime  : 
I  hate  them  not,  Nirvana. 

High  on  the  topmost  thrilling  of  the  surge 
I  saw,  afar,  two  hosts  to  battle  urge. 
The  widows  of  the  victors  sang  a  dirge, 
But  I  wept  not,  Nirvana. 

I  saw  two  lovers  sitting  on  a  star. 
He  kissed  her  lip,  she  kissed  his  battle-scar. 
They  quarrelled  soon,  and  went  two  ways,  afar 
O  Life  !     I  laughed,  Nirvana. 

And  never  a  king  but  had  some  king  above, 
And  never  a  law  to  right  the  wrongs  of  Love, 
And  ever  a  fanged  snake  beneath  a  dove, 
Saw  I  on  earth,  Nirvana. 


220  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 

But  I,  with  kingship  over  kings,  am  free. 
I  love  not,  hate  not  :  right  and  wrong  agree  t 
And  fangs  of  snakes  and  lures  of  doves  to  me 
Are  vain,  are  vain,  Nirvana. 

So  by  mine  inner  contemplation  long, 
By  thoughts  that  need  no  speech  nor  oath  nor  song, 
My  spirit  soars  above  the  motley  throng 
Of  days  and  nights,  Nirvana. 

O  Suns,  O  Rains,  O  Day  and  Night,  O  Chance, 

0  Time  besprent  with  seven-hued  circumstance,, 

1  float  above  ye  all  into  the  trance 

That  draws  me  nigh  Nirvana. 

Gods  of  small  worlds,  ye  little  Deities 
Of  humble  Heavens  under  my  large  skies, 
And  Governor-Spirits,  all,  I  rise,  I  rise, 
I  rise  into  Nirvana. 

The  storms  of  Self  below  me  rage  and  die. 
On  the  still  bosom  of  mine  ecstasy, 
A  lotus  on  a  lake  of  balm,  I  lie 
Forever  in  Nirvina. 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1869. 


THE   RAVEN   DAYS. 


THE  RAVEN   DAYS.* 

OUR  hearths  are  gone  out  and  our  hearts  are  broken, 
And  but  the  ghosts  of  homes  to  us  remain, 

And  ghastly  eyes  and  hollow  sighs  give  token 
From  friend  to  friend  of  an  unspoken  pain. 

O  Raven  days,  dark  Raven  days  of  sorrow, 
Bring  to  us  in  your  whetted  ivory  beaks 

Some  sign  out  of  the  far  land  of  To-morrow, 

Some  strip  of  sea-green  dawn,  some  orange  streaks. 

Ye  float  in  dusky  files,  forever  croaking. 

Ye  chill  our  manhood  with  your  dreary  shade. 
Dumb  in  the  dark,  not  even  God  invoking, 

We  lie  in  chains,  too  weak  to  be  afraid. 

O  Raven  days,  dark  Raven  days  of  sorrow, 
Will  ever  any  warm  light  come  again  ? 

Will  ever  the  lit  mountains  of  To-morrow 

Begin  to  gleam  athwart  the  mournful  plain  ?    s 

PRATTVILLK.  ALABAMA,  February,  1868. 


1  The  two  poems  which  follow  "The  Raven  Days"  have  not  been 
included  in  earlier  editions.  All  three  are  calls  from  those  des 
perate  years  for  the  South  just  after  the  Civil  War.  The  reader 
of  to-day,  seeing  that  forlorn  period  in  the  just  perspective  of  half 
a  century,  will  not  wonder  at  the  tone  of  anguished  remonstrance; 
but,  rather,  that  so  few  notes  of  mourning  have  come  from  a  poet 
who  missed  nothing  of  what  the  days  of  Reconstruction  brought  to 
his  people. 


222  UNRE VISED   EARLY   POEMS. 


OUR  HILLS. 

DEAR  Mother-Earth 

Of  Titan  birth, 

Yon  hills  are  your  large  breasts,  and  often  I 
Have  climbed  to  their  top-nipples,  fain  and  dry 
To  drink  my  mother's-milk  so  near  the  sky. 

O  ye  hill-stains, 

Red,  for  all  rains ! 

The  blood  that  made  you  has  all  bled  for  us, 
The  hearts  that  paid  you  are  all  dead  for  us, 
The  trees  that  shade  you  groan  with  lead,  for  us ! 

And  O,  hill-sides, 

Like  giants'  brides 

Ye  sleep  in  ravine-rumpled  draperies, 
And  weep  your  springs  in  tearful  memories 
Of  days  that  stained  your  robes  with  stains  like  these 

Sleep  on,  ye  hills ! 

Weep  on,  ye  rills ! 

The  stainers  have  decreed  the  stains  shall  stay. 
They  chain  the  hands  might  wash  the  stains  away. 
They  wait  with  cold  hearts  till  we  "rue  the  day." 

O  Mother-Earth 

Of  Titan  birth, 
Thy  mother's-milk  is  curdled  with  aloe. 
— Like  hills,  Men,  lift  calm  heads  through  any  woe, 
And  weep,  but  bow  not  an  inch,  for  any  foe ! 

Thou  Sorrow-height 

We  climb  by  night, 

Thou  hast  no  hell-deep  chasm  save  Disgrace. 
To  stoop,  will  fling  us  down  its  fouled  space: 
Stand  proud !    The  Dawn  will  meet  us,  face  to  face, 
For  down  steep  hills  the  Dawn  loves  best  to  race ! 


LAUGHTER  IN  THE  SENATE.        223 


LAUGHTER  IN  THE  SENATE. 

IN  the  South  lies  a  lonesome,  hungry  Land; 
He  huddles  his  rags  with  a  cripple's  hand; 
He  mutters,  prone  on  the  barren  sand, 

What  time  his  heart  is  breaking. 

He  lifts  his  bare  head  from  the  ground; 
He  listens  through  the  gloom  around: 
The  winds  have  brought  him  a  strange  sound 
Of  distant  merrymaking. 

Comes  now  the  Peace  so  long  delayed? 
Is  it  the  cheerful  voice  of  Aid? 
Begins  the  time  his  heart  has  prayed, 

When  men  may  reap  and  sow?' 

Ah,  God !    Back  to  the  cold  earth's  breast ! 
The  sages  chuckle  o'er  their  jest; 
Must  they,  to  give  a  people  rest, 
.Their  dainty  wit  forego? 

The  tyrants  sit  in  a  stately  hall; 
They  jibe  at  a  wretched  people's  fall; 
The  tyrants  forget  how  fresh  is  the  pall 
Over  their  dead  and  ours. 

Look  how  the  senators  ape  the  clown, 
And  don  the  motley  and  hide  the  gown, 
But  yonder  a  fast-rising  frown 

On  the  people's  forehead  lowers. 
1868. 


224  UNRE VISED   EARLY   POEMS. 


BABY   CHARLEY. 

HE  's  fast  asleep.     See  how,  O  Wife, 
Night's  finger  on  the  lip  of  life 
Bids  whist  the  tongue,  so  prattle-rife, 
Of  busy  Baby  Charley. 

One  arm  stretched  backward  round  his  head, 
Five  little  toes  from  out  the  bed 
Just  showing,  like  five  rosebuds  red, 
— So  slumbers  Baby  Charley. 

Heaven-lights,  I  know,  are  beaming  through 
Those  lucent  eyelids,  veined  with  blue, 
That  shut  away  from  mortal  view 
Large  eyes  of  Baby  Charley. 

0  sweet  Sleep-Angel,  throned  now 
On  the  round  glory  of  his  brow, 
Wave  thy  wing  and  waft  my  vow 

Breathed  over  Baby  Charley. 

1  vow  that  my  heart,  when  death  is  nigh, 
Shall  never  shiver  with  a  sigh 

For  act  of  hand  or  tongue  or  eye 

That  wronged  my  Baby  Charley ! 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  December,  1869. 


A  SEA- SHORE  GRAVE.  225 


A  SEA-SHORE  GRAVE. 

To  M.  J.  L. 
BY  SIDNEY  AND  CLIFFORD  LANIEIU 

O  WISH  that 's  vainer  than  the  plash 

Of  these  wave-whimsies  on  the  shore  : 
"  Give  us  a  pearl  to  fill  the  gash — 

God,  let  our  dead  friend  live  once  more  !  " 

O  wish  that 's  stronger  than  the  stroke 
Of  yelling  wave  and  snapping  levin  ; 
"  God,  lift  us  o'er  the  Last  Day's  smoke, 
All  white,  to  Thee  and  her  in  Heaven ! " 

O  wish  that 's  swifter  than  the  race 
Of  wave  and  wind  in  sea  and  sky ; 

Let's  take  the  grave-cloth  from  her  face 
And  fall  in  the  grave,  and  kiss,  and  die  J 

Look !     High  above  a  glittering  calm 
Of  sea  and  sky  and  kingly  sun, 

She  shines  and  smiles,  and  waves  a  palm — 
And  now  we  wish — Thy  will  be  done  ! 

MONTGOMERY,  ALABAMA,  1866. 


226        UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 


SOULS  AND   RAIN-DROPS. 

LIGHT  rain-drops  fall  and  wrinkle  the  sea, 
Then  vanish,  and  die  utterly. 
One  would  not  know  that  rain-drops  fell 
If  the  round  sea-wrinkles  did  not  tell. 

So  souls  come  down  and  wrinkle  life 
And  vanish  in  the  flesh-sea  strife. 
One  might  not  know  that  souls  had  place 
Were 't  not  for  the  wrinkles  in  life's  face. 


NILSSON.  227 


NILSSON. 

A  ROSE  of  perfect  red,  embossed 
With  silver  sheens  of  crystal  frost, 
Yet  warm,  nor  life  nor  fragrance  lost 

High  passion  throbbing  in  a  sphere 
That  Art  hath  wrought  of  diamond  clear, 
— A  great  heart  beating  in  a  tear. 

The  listening  soul  is  full  of  dreams 
That  shape  the  wondrous-varying  themes 
As  cries  of  men  or  plash  of  streams. 

Or  noise  of  summer  rain-drops  round 
That  patter  daintily  a-ground 
With  hints  of  heaven  in  the  sound. 

Or  noble  wind- tones  chanting  free 
Through  morning-skies  across  the  sea 
Wild  hymns  to  some  strange  majesty. 

O,  if  one  trope,  clear-cut  and  keen, 
May  type  the  art  of  Song's  best  queen, 
White-hot  of  soul,  white-chaste  of  miens 

On  Music's  heart  doth  N"ilsson  dwell 
As  if  a  Swedish  snow-flake  fell 
Into  a  glowing  'Sower-bell. 

Ntw  YORK,  1871. 


228        UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 


NIGHT  AND   DAY. 

THE  innocent,  sweet  Day  is  dead. 
Dark  Night  hath  slain  her  in  her  bed. 
O,  Moors  are  as  fierce  to  kill  as  to  wed  J 
— Put  out  the  light,  said  he. 

A  sweeter  light  than  ever  rayed 
From  star  of  heaven  or  eye  of  maid 
Has  vanished  in  the  unknown  Shade 
— She  's  dead,  she  's  dead,  said  he 

Now,  in  a  wild,  sad  after-mood 
The  tawny  Night  sits  still  to  brood 
Upon  the  dawn-time  when  he  wooed 
— I  would  she  lived,  said  he. 

Star-memories  of  happier  times, 
Of  loving  deeds  and  lovers'  rhymes, 
Throng  forth  in  silvery  pantomimes. 
— Come  back,  O  Day  !  said  he. 

MONTGOMERY,  ALABAMA,  1866. 


A   BIRTHDAY    SONG.  22Q 


A   BIRTHDAY  SONG. 
To  S.  G. 

FOR  ever  wave,  for  ever  float  and  shine 
Before  my  yearning  eyes,  oh  !  dream  of  mine 
Wherein  I  dreamed  that  time  was  like  a  vine, 

A  creeping  rose,  that  clomb  a  height  of  dread 
Out  of  the  sea  of  Birth,  all  filled  with  dead, 
Up  to  the  brilliant  cloud  of  Death  o'erhead. 

This  vine  bore  many  blossoms,  which  were  years. 
Their  petals,  red  with  joy,  or  bleached  by  tears, 
Waved  to  and  fro  i'  the  winds  of  hopes  and  fears. 

Here  all  men  clung,  each  hanging  by  his  spray. 
Anon,  one  dropped  ;  his  neighbor  'gan  to  pray  ; 
And  so  they  clung  and  dropped  and  prayed,  alway. 

But  I  did  mark  one  lately-opened  bloom, 

Wherefrom  arose  a  visible  perfume 

That  wrapped  me  in  a  cloud  of  dainty  gloom. 

And  rose — an  odor  by  a  spirit  haunted — 
And  drew  me  upward  with  a  speed  enchanted, 
Swift  floating,  by  wild  sea  or  sky  undaunted, 

Straight  through  the  cloud  of  death,  where  men  are  free. 
I  gained  a  height,  and  stayed  and  bent  my  knee. 
Then  glowed  my  cloud,  and  broke  and  unveiled  thee. 


230        UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 

"  O  flower-born  and  flower-souled  !  "  I  said, 
"  Be  the  year-bloom  that  breathed  thee  ever  red, 
Nor  wither,  yellow,  down  among  the  dead. 

"  May  all  that  cling  to  sprays  of  time,  like  me, 
Be  sweetly  wafted  over  sky  and  sea 
By  rose-breaths  shrining  maidens  like  to  thee  1 " 

Then  while  we  sat  upon  the  height  afar 
Came  twilight,  like  a  lover  late  from  war, 
With  soft  winds  fluting  to  his  evening  star. 

And  the  shy  stars  grew  bold  and  scattered  gold., 
And  chanting  voices  ancient  secrets  told, 
And  an  acclaim  of  angels  earthward  rolled. 

MONTGOMERY,  ALABAMA,  October,  1866. 


RESURRECTION.  231 


RESURRECTION. 

SOMETIMES  in  morning  sunlights  by  the  river 
Where  in  the  early  fall  long  grasses  wave, 

Light  winds  from  over  the  moorland  sink  and  shiver 
And  sigh  as  if  just  blown  across  a  grave. 

And  then  I  pause  and  listen  to  this  sighing. 

I  look  with  strange  eyes  on  the  well-known  stream. 
I  hear  wild  birth-cries  uttered  by  the  dying. 

I  know  men  waking  who  appear  to  dream. 

Then  from  the  water-lilies  slow  uprises 

The  still  vast  face  of  all  the  life  I  know, 
Changed  now,  and  full  of  wonders  and  surprises, 

With  fire  in  eyes  that  once  were  glazed  with  snow. 

Fair  now  the  brows  old  Pain  had  erewhile  wrinkled, 
And  peace  and  strength  about  the  calm  mouth  dwell. 

Clean  of  the  ashes  that  Repentance  sprinkled, 
The  meek  head  poises  like  a  flower-bell. 

All  the  old  scars  of  wanton  wars  are  vanished  ; 

And  what  blue  bruises  grappling  Sense  had  left 
And  sad  remains  of  redder  stains  are  banished, 

And  the  dim  blotch  of  heart-committed  theft. 

O  still  vast  vision  of  transfigured  features 

Unvisited  by  secret  crimes  or  dooms, 
Remain,  remain  amid  these  water-creatures, 

Stand,  shine  among  yon  water-lily  blooms. 

For  eighteen  centuries  ripple  down  the  river, 
And  windy  times  the  stalks  of  empires  wave, 

— Let  the  winds  come  from  the  moor  and  sigh  and  shiver, 
Fain,  fain  am  I,  O  Christ,  to  pass  the  grave. 


232  UNREVISED   EARLY  POEMS. 


TO 


THE  Day  was  dying  ;  his  breath 
Wavered  away  in  a  hectic  gleam  ; 
And  I  said,  if  Life  's  a  dream,  and  Death 
And  Love  and  all  are  dreams — I  '11  dream. 

A  mist  came  over  the  bay 
Like  as  a  dream  would  over  an  eye. 
The  mist  was  white  and  the  dream  was  grey 
And  both  contained  a  human  cry, 

The  burthen  whereof  was  "  Love," 
And  it  filled  both  mist  and  dream  with  pain, 
And  the  hills  below  and  the  skies  above 
Were  touched  and  uttered  it  back  again. 

The  mist  broke  :  down  the  rift 
A  kind  ray  shot  from  a  holy  star. 
Then  my  dream  did  waver  and  break  and  lift- 
Through  it,  O  Love,  shone  thy  face,  afar. 

So  Boyhood  sets  :  comes  Youth, 
A  painful  night  of  mists  and  dreams  ; 
That  broods  till  Love's  exquisite  truth, 
The  star  of  a  morn-clear  manhood,  beams. 

BOYKIN'S  BLUFF,  VIRGINIA,  1863. 


THE   WEDDING.  233 


THE  WEDDING. 

O  MARRIAGE-BELLS,  your  clamor  tells 

Two  weddings  in  one  breath. 
She  marries  whom  her  love  compels  : 

— And  I  wed  Goodman  Death  ! 
My  brain  is  blank,  my  tears  are  red  ; 
Listen,  O  God  :— "  I  will,"  he  said  :— 
And  I  would  that  I  were  dead. 
Come  groomsman  Grief  and  bridesmaid  Pain 
Come  and  stand  with  a  ghastly  twain. 
My  Bridegroom  Death  is  come  o'er  the  meres 
To  wed  a  bride  with  bloody  tears. 
Ring,  ring,  O  bells,  full  merrily  : 
Life-bells  to  her,  death-bells  to  me  : 
O  Death,  I  am  true  wife  to  thee  ! 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1865. 


UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 


THE   PALM   AND   IKE   PINE. 

FROM  THE   GERMAN   OF  HEINE. 

IN  the  far  North  stands  a  Pine-tree,  lone, 

Upon  a  wintry  height ; 
It  sleeps  :  around  it  snows  have  thrown 

A  covering  of  white. 

It  dreams  forever  of  a  Palm 
That,  far  i'  the  Morning- land, 

Stands  silent  in  a  most  sad  calm 
Midst  of  the  burning  sand. 

POINT  LOOKOUT  PRISON,  1864. 


SPRING  GREETING.  235 


SPRING   GREETING. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HERDER. 

ALL  faintly  through  my  soul  to-day, 
As  from  a  bell  that  far  away 
Is  tinkled  by  some  frolic  tay, 

Floateth  a  lovely  chiming. 
Thou  magic  bell,  to  many  a  fell 
And  many  a  winter-saddened  dell 
Thy  tongue  a  tale  of  Spring  doth  tell, 

Too  passionate-sweet  for  rhyming. 

Chime  out,  thou  little  song  of  Spring, 
Float  in  the  blue  skies  ravishing. 
Thy  song-of-life  a  joy  doth  bring 

That 's  sweet,  albeit  fleeting. 
Float  on  the  Spring-winds  e'en  to  my  home 
And  when  thou  to  a  rose  shalt  come 
That  hath  begun  to  show  her  bloom, 

Say,  I  send  her  greeting  I 

POINT  LOOKOUT  PRISON,  1864. 


236  UNRE VISED   EARLY   POEMS. 


THE  TOURNAMENT. 

JOUST  FIRST. 


BRIGHT  shone  the  lists,  blue  bent  the  skies, 
And  the  knights  still  hurried  amain 

To  the  tournament  under  the  ladies'  eyes, 
Where  the  jousters  were  Heart  and  Brain, 

II. 

Flourished  the  trumpets  :  entered  Heart, 

A  youth  in  crimson  and  gold. 
Flourished  again  :  Brain  stood  apart, 

Steel-armored,  dark  and  cold. 

III. 

Heart's  palfrey  caracoled  gayly  round, 

Heart  tra-li-ra'd  merrily  ; 
But  Brain  sat  still,  with  never  a  sound, 

So  cynical- calm  was  he. 

IV. 

Heart's  helmet-crest  bore  favors  three 
From  his  lady's  white  hand  caught ; 

While  Brain  wore  a  plumeless  casque  ;  not  he 
Or  favor  gave  or  sought. 


THE   TOURNAMENT.  237 


V. 

The  herald  blew  ;  Heart  shot  a  glance 

To  find  his  lady's  eye, 
But  Brain  gazed  straight  ahead  his  lance 

To  aim  more  faithfully. 

VI. 

They  charged,  they  struck  ;  both  fell,  both  bled. 

Brain  rose  again,  ungloved, 
Heart,  dying,  smiled  and  faintly  said, 

"  My  love  to  my  beloved  !  "  fc 

CAMP  FRENCH,  WILMINGTON,  N.  C., 
May,  1862. 


JOUST  SECOND. 

i. 

A-many  sweet  eyes  wept  and  wept, 

A-many  bosoms  heaved  again  ; 
A-many  dainty  dead  hopes  slept 

With  yonder  Heart-knight  prone  o'  the  plain. 

II. 

Yet  stars  will  burn  through  any  mists, 

And  the  ladies'  eyes,  through  rains  of  fate, 

Still  beamed  upon  the  bloody  lists 
And  lit  the  joust  of  Love  and  Hate. 

in. 

O  strange  !  or  ere  a  trumpet  blew, 
Or  ere  a  challenge-word  was  given, 

A  knight  leapt  down  i'  the  lists  ;  none  knew 
Whether  he  sprang  from  earth  or  heaven. 


238  UNREVISED   EARLY   POEMS. 


IV. 


His  cheek  was  soft  as  a  lily-bud, 

His  grey  eyes  calmed  his  youth's  alarm  ; 
Nor  helm  nor  hauberk  nor  even  a  hood 

Had  he  to  shield  his  life  from  harm. 


v. 

No  falchion  from  his  baldric  swung, 

He  wore  a  white  rose  in  its  place. 
No  dagger  at  his  girdle  hung, 

But  only  an  olive-branch,  for  grace. 

VI. 

And  "  Come,  thou  poor  mistaken  knight," 

Cried  Love,  unarmed,  yet  dauntless  there, 
:<  Come  on,  God  pity  thee ! — I  fight 

Sans  sword,  sans  shield  ;  yet,  Hate,  beware  1  n 


VII. 

Spurred  furious  Hate  ;  he  foamed  at  mouth, 
His  breath  was  hot  upon  the  air, 

His  breath  scorched  souls,  as  a  dry  drought 
Withers  green  trees  and  burns  them  bare. 


VIII. 

Straight  drives  he  at  his  enemy, 

His  hairy  hands  grip  lance  in  rest, 
His  lance  it  gleams  full  bitterly, 

God  ! — gleams,  true-point,  on  Love's  bare  breast  I 


THE  TOURNAMENT.  239 


IX. 

Love's  grey  eyes  glow  with  a  heaven-heat, 
Love  lifts  his  hand  in  a  saintly  prayer  ; 

Look  !  Hate  hath  fallen  at  his  feet ! 
Look !  Hate  hath  vanished  in  the  air  t 

x. 

Then  all  the  throng  looked  kind  on  all ; 

Eyes  yearned,  lips  kissed,  dumb  souls  were  freed  ; 
Two  magic  maids'  hands  lifted  a  pall 

And  the  dead  knight,  Heart,  sprang  on  his  steed. 

XI. 

Then  Love  cried,  "  Break  me  his  lance,  each  knight! 

Ye  shall  fight  for  blood-athirst  Fame  no  more  ! " 
And  the  knights  all  doffed  their  mailed  might 

And  dealt  out  dole  on  dole  to  the  poor. 

XII. 

Then  dove-flights  sanctified  the  plain, 
And  hawk  and  sparrow  shared  a  nest. 

And  the  great  sea  opened  and  swallowed  Pain, 
And  out  of  this  water-grave  floated  Rest  I 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  1865. 


240        UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 


THE    DYING    WORDS     OF    STONEWALL 
JACKSON. 

"  Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  battle." 

"  Tell  Major  Hawks  to  advance  the  Commissary  train." 

"  Let  us  cross  the  river  and  rest  in  the  shade." 


THE  stars  of  Night  contain  the  glittering  Day 
And  rain  his  glory  down  with  sweeter  grace 
Upon  the  dark  World's  grand,  enchanted  face- 
All  loth  to  turn  away. 

And  so  the  Day,  about  to  yield  his  breath, 
Utters  the  stars  unto  the  listening  Night, 
To  stand  for  burning  fare-thee-wells  of  light 
Said  on  the  verge  of  death. 

O  hero-life  that  lit  us  like  the  sun ! 
O  hero-words  that  glittered  like  the  stars 
And  stood  and  shone  above  the  gloomy  wars 
When  the  hero-life  was  done  I 

The  phantoms  of  a  battle  came  to  dwell 
I'  the  fitful  vision  of  his  dying  eyes — 
Yet  even  in  battle-dreams,  he  sends  supplies 
To  those  he  loved  so  well. 


DYING   WORDS   OF   STONEWALL  JACKSON.      241 

His  army  stands  in  battle-line  arrayed  : 
His  couriers  fly  :  all 's  done  :  now  God  decide  I 
— And  not  till  then  saw  he  the  Other  Side 
Or  would  accept  the  shade. 

Thou  Land  whose  sun  is  gone,  thy  stars  remain  ! 
Still  shine  the  words  that  miniature  his  deeds. 
O  thrice-beloved,  where'er  thy  great  heart  bleeds, 
Solace  hast  thou  for  pain  1 

GEORGIA,  September,  1865. 


242        UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 


TO  WILHELMINA. 

A  WHITE  face,  drooping,  on  a  bending  neck  : 
A  tube-rose  that  with  heavy  petal  curves 
Her  stem  :  a  foam-bell  on  a  wave  that  swerves 

Back  from  the  undulating  vessel's  deck. 

From  out  the  whitest  cloud  of  summer  steals 
The  wildest  lightning  :  from  this  face  of  thine 
Thy  soul,  a  fire-of-heaven,  warm  and  fine, 

In  marvellous  flashes  its  fair  self  reveals. 

As  when  one  gazes  from  the  summer  sea 

On  some  far  gossamer  cloud,  with  straining  eye, 
Fearing  to  see  it  vanish  in  the  sky, 

So,  floating,  wandering  Cloud-Soul,  I  watch  thee. 

MONTGOMERY,  ALABAMA,  1866. 


WEDDING-HYMN.  243 


WEDDING-HYMN. 

THOU  God,  whose  high,  eternal  Love 
Is  the  only  blue  sky  of  our  life, 

Clear  all  the  Heaven  that  bends  above 
The  life-road  of  this  man  and  wife. 

May  these  two  lives  be  but  one  note 

In  the  world's  strange-sounding  harmony. 

Whose  sacred  music  e'er  shall  float 
Through  every  discord  up  to  Thee. 

As  when  from  separate  stars  two  beams 
Unite  to  form  one  tender  ray : 

As  when  two  sweet  but  shadowy  dreams 
Explain  each  other  in  the  day  : 

So  may  these  two  dear  hearts  one  light 
Emit,  and  each  interpret  each, 
et  an  angel  come  and  dwell  to-night 
In  this  dear  double-heart,  and  teach  fr 

MACON,  GEORGIA,  September,  1865. 


244  UNRE VISED   EARLY  POEMS. 


IN  THE  FOAM. 

LIFE  swelleth  in  a  whitening  wave, 
And  dasheth  thee  and  me  apart. 
I  sweep  out  seaward  : — be  thou  brave. 
And  reach  the  shore,  Sweetheart. 

Beat  back  the  backward-thrusting  sea. 
Thy  weak  white  arm  his  blows  may  thwart, 
Christ  buffet  the  wild  surge  for  thee 
Till  thou'rt  ashore.  Sweetheart. 

Ah,  now  thy  face  grows  dim  apace, 
And  seems  of  yon  white  foam  a  part. 
Canst  hear  me  through  the  water-bass, 
Cry  :  "  To  the  Shore,  Sweetheart  ?  " 

Now  Christ  thee  soothe  upon  the  Shore, 
My  lissome-armed  sea-Britomart. 
I  sweep  out  seaward,  never  more 
To  find  the  Shore,  Sweetheart 

PRATTVILLB,  ALABAMA,  December,  1867. 


BARNACLES.  245 


BARNACLES. 

MY  soul  is  sailing  through  the  sea, 
But  the  Past  is  heavy  and  hindereth  me. 
The  Past  hath  crusted  cumbrous  shells 
That  hold  the  flesh  of  cold  sea-mells 

About  my  soul. 

The  huge  waves  wash,  the  high  waves  roll 
Each  barnacle  clingeth  and  worketh  dole 

And  hindereth  me  from  sailing ! 

Old  Past  let  go,  and  drop  i'  the  sea 
Till  fathomless  waters  cover  thee  ! 
For  I  am  living  but  thou  art  dead  ; 
Thou  drawest  back,  I  strive  ahead 

The  Day  to  find. 

Thy  shells  unbind  !     Night  comes  behind, 
I  needs  must  hurry  with  the  wind 

And  trim  me  best  for  sailing. 


MACON,  GEORGIA,  1867. 


246        UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 


NIGHT. 

FAIR  is  the  wedded  reign  of  Night  and  Day. 
Each  rules  a  half  of  earth  with  different  sway, 
Exchanging  kingdoms,  East  and  West,  alway. 

Like  the  round  pearl  that  Egypt  drunk  in  wine, 
The  sun  half  sinks  i'  the  brimming,  rosy  brine  : 
The  wild  Night  drinks  all  up  :  how  her  eyes  shine  ! 

Now  the  swift  sail  of  straining  life  is  furled, 
And  through  the  stillness  of  my  soul  is  whirled 
The  throbbing  of  the  hearts  of  half  the  world. 

I  hear  the  cries  that  follow  Birth  and  Death. 
I  hear  huge  Pestilence  draw  his  vaporous  breath  : 
"  Beware,  prepare,  or  else  ye  die,"  he  saith. 

I  hear  a  haggard  student  turn  and  sigh  : 

I  hear  men  begging  Heaven  to  let  them  die  : 

And,  drowning  all,  a  wild-eyed  woman's  cry. 

So  Night  takes  toll  of  Wisdom  as  of  Sin. 

The  student's  and  the  drunkard's  cheek  is  thin  : 

But  flesh  is  not  the  prize  we  strive  to  win. 

Now  airy  swarms  of  fluttering  dreams  descend 
On  souls,  like  birds  on  trees,  and  have  no  end. 
O  God,  from  vulture-dreams  my  soul  defend ! 

Let  fall  on  Her  a  rose-leaf  rain  of  dreams, 

All  passionate-sweet,  as  are  the  loving  beams 

Of  starlight  on  the  glimmering  woods  and  streams. 

MONTGOMERY,  ALABAMA,  April,  1866. 


JUNE  DREAMS,   IN  JANUARY.  247 


JUNE  DREAMS,   IN  JANUARY. 

"  So  pulse,  and  pulse,  thou  rhythmic-hearted  Noon 
That  liest,  large-limbed,  curved  along  the  hills, 
In  languid  palpitation,  half  a-swoon 
With  ardors  and  sun-loves  and  subtle  thrills  ; 

"  Throb,  Beautiful !  while  the  fervent  hours  exhale 

As  kisses  faint-blown  from  thy  finger-tips 
Up  to  the  sun,  that  turn  him  passion-pale 
And  then  as  red  as  any  virgin's  lips. 

"  O  tender  Darkness,  when  June-day  hath  ceased, 

— Faint  Odor  from  the  day-flower's  crushing  born, 
— Dim,  visible  Sigh  out  of  the  mournful  East 
That  cannot  see  her  lord  again  till  morn  : 

"  And  many  leaves,  broad-palmed  towards  the  sky 

To  catch  the  sacred  raining  of  star-light : 
And  pallid  petals,  fain,  all  fain  to  die, 

Soul-stung  by  too  keen  passion  of  the  night : 

"  And  short-breath'd  winds,  under  yon  gracious  moon 

Doing  mild  errands  for  mild  violets, 
Or  carrying  sighs  from  the  red  lips  of  June 
What  aimless  way  the  odor-current  sets  : 

"  And  stars,  ringed  glittering  in  whorls  and  bells, 

Or  bent  along  the  sky  in  looped  star-sprays, 
Or  vine-wound,  with  bright  grapes  in  panicles, 
Or  bramble -tangled  in  a  sweetest  maze, 


248  UNREVISED   EARLY  POEMS. 

"  Or  lying  like  young  lilies  in  a  lake 

About  the  great  white  Lotus  of  the  moon, 
Or  blown  and  drifted,  as  if  winds  should  shake 
Star  blossoms  down  from  silver  stems  too  soon, 

"  Or  budding  thick  about  full  open  stars, 

Or  clambering  shyly  up  cloud-lattices, 
Or  trampled  pale  in  the  red  path  of  Mars, 
Or  trim-set  in  quaint  gardener's  fantasies  : 

"  And  long  June  night-sounds  crooned  among  the  leaves, 

And  whispered  confidence  of  dark  and  green, 
And  murmurs  in  old  moss  about  old  eaves, 
And  tinklings  floating  over  water-sheen  !  " 

Then  he  that  wrote  laid  down  his  pen  and  sighed  ; 

And  straightway  came  old  Scorn  and  Bitterness, 

Like  Hunnish  kings  out  of  the  barbarous  land, 

And  camped  upon  the  transient  Italy 

That  he  had  dreamed  to  blossom  in  his  soul. 

"  I  '11  date  this  dream,  he  said  ;  so  :   '  Given,  these, 

On  this,  the  coldest  night  in  all  the  year, 

From  this,  the  meanest  garret  in  the  world, 

In  this,  the  greatest  city  in  the  land, 

To  you,  the  richest  folk  this  side  of  death, 

By  one,  the  hungriest  poet  under  heaven, 

— Writ  while  his  candle  sputtered  in  the  gust, 

And  while  his  last,  last  ember  died  of  cold, 

And  while  the  mortal  ice  i'  the  air  made  free 

Of  all  his  bones  and  bit  and  shrunk  his  heart, 

And  while  soft  Luxury  made  show  to  strike 

Her  gloved  hands  together  and  to  smile 

What  time  her  weary  feet  unconsciously 

Trode  wheels  that  lifted  Avarice  to  power, 

— And  while,  moreover, — O  thou  God,  thou  God— 


JUNE   DREAMS,    IN  JANUARY.  249 

His  worshipful  sweet  wife  sat  still,  afar, 

Within  the  village  whence  she  sent  him  forth 

Into  the  town  to  make  his  name  and  fame, 

Waiting,  all  confident  and  proud  and  calm, 

Till  he  should  make  for  her  his  name  and  fame, 

Waiting — O  Christ,  how  keen  this  cuts  ! — large-eyed, 

With  Baby  Charley  till  her  husband  make 

For  her  and  him  a  poet's  name  and  fame.' 

— Read  me,"  he  cried,  and  rose,  and  stamped  his  foot 

Impatiently  at  Heaven,  "read  me  this," 

(Putting  th"  inquiry  full  in  the  face  of  God) 

"  Why  can  we  poets  dream  us  beauty,  so, 

But  cannot  dream  us  bread  ?     Whv,  now.  can  I 

Make,  aye,  create  this  fervid  throbbing  June 

Out  of  the  chill,  chill  matter  of  my  soul, 

Yet  cannot  make  a  poorest  penny-loaf 

Out  of  this  same  chill  matter,  no,  not  one 

For  Mary  though  she  starved  upon  my  breast  ?  " 

And  then  he  fell  upon  his  couch,  and  sobbed, 
And,  late,  just  when  his  heart  leaned  o'er 
The  very  edge  of  breaking,  fain  to  fall, 
God  sent  him  sleep. 

There  came  his  room-fellow, 
Stout  Dick,  the  painter,  saw  the  written  dream, 
Read,  scratched  his  curly  pate,  smiled,  winked,  fell  on 
The  poem  in  big-hearted  comic  rage, 
Quick  folded,  thrust  in  envelope,  addressed 
To  him,  the  critic-god,  that  sitteth  grim 
And  giant-grisly  on  the  stone  causeway 
That  leadeth  to  his  magazine  and  fame. 

Him,  by  due  mail,  the  little  Dream  of  June 
Encountered  growling,  and  at  unawares 
Stole  in  upon  his  poem-battered  soul 
So  that  he  smiled,— then  shook  his  head  upon't 
—Then  growled,  then  smiled  again,  till  at  the  last, 


250        UNREVISED  EARLY  POEMS. 

As  one  that  deadly  sinned  against  his  will, 

He  writ  upon  the  margin  of  the  Dream 

A  wondrous,  wondrous  word  that  in  a  day 

Did  turn  the  fleeting  song  to  very  bread, 

— Whereat  Dick  Painter  leapt,  the  poet  wept, 

And  Mary  slept  with  happy  drops  a-gleam 

Upon  long  lashes  of  her  serene  eyes 

From  twentieth  reading  of  her  poet's  news 

Quick-sent,  "  O  sweet  my  Sweet,  to  dream  is  power, 

And  I  can  dream  thee  bread  and  dream  thee  wine, 

And  I  will  dream  thee  robes  and  gems,  dear  Love, 

To  clothe  thy  holy  loveliness  withal, 

And  I  will  dream  thee  here  to  live  by  me, 

Thee  and  my  little  man  thou  hold'st  at  breast, 

— Come,  Name,  come,  Fame,  and  kiss  my  Sweetheart's  fee* » 

GEORGIA,  1869. 


NOTES 


NOTES. 


SUNRISE,  p.  3. 

Sunrise,  Mr.  Lanier's  latest  completed  poem,  was  written  while  his 
sun  of  life  seemed  fairly  at  the  setting,  and  the  hand  which  first  pen 
cilled  its  lines  had  not  strength  to  carry  nourishment  to  the  lips. 

The  three  Hymns  of  the  Marshes  which  open  this  collection  are  the 
only  written  portions  of  a  series  of  six  Marsh  Hymns  that  were  designed 
by  the  author  to  form  a  separate  volume. 

The  Song  of  the  Marshes,  At  Sunset,  does  not  belong  to  this  group, 
but  is  inserted  among  the  Hvmns  as  forming  a  true  accord  with  them. 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN,  p.  14, 

The  salt  marshes  of  Glynn  County,  Georgia,  immediately  around 
the  sea-coast  city  of  Brunswick. 

CLOVER,  p.  19. 

Clover  is  placed  as  the  initial  poem  of  a  volume  which  was  left  in 
orderly  arrangement  among  the  author's  papers.  His  own  grouping 
in  that  volume  has  been  followed  as  far  as  possible  in  this  fuller  col 
lection. 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD,  p.  27. 
"...    yon  trim  Shakespeare  on  the  tree  " 

leads  back,  almost  twenty  years  from  its  writing,  to  the  poet's  college 
note-book  where  we  find  the  boy  reflecting :  "  A  poet  is  the  mocking 
bird  of  the  spiritual  universe.  In  him  are  collected  all  the  individual 
songs  of  all  individual  natures. " 

CORN,  p.  53. 

Corn  will  hold  a  distinct  interest  for  those  who  study  the  gathering 
forces  in  the  author's  growth  :  for  it  was  the  first  outcome  of  his  con 
sciously-developing  art-life.  This  life,  the  musician's  and  poet's,  he 
entered  upon — after  yean  of  patient  denial  and  suppression — in  Sep 
tember,  1873,  uncertain  of  his  powers  but  determined  to  give  them  wing. 


254  NOTES. 

His  "  fieldward-faring  eyes  took  harvest  "  "  among  the  stately  corn* 
ranks,"  in  a  portion  of  middle  Georgia  sixty  miles  to  the  north  of  Ma« 
con.  It  is  a  high  tract  of  country  from  which  one  looks  across  the 
lower  reaches  to  the  distant  Blue  Ridge  mountains,  whose  wholesome 
breath,  all  unobstructed,  here  blends  with  the  woods-odors  of  the  beech, 
the  hickory  and  the  muscadine  :  a  part  of  a  range  recalled  elsewhere 
by  Mr.  Lanier,  as  "  that  ample  stretch  of  generous  soil,  where  the  Ap 
palachian  ruggednesses  calm  themselves  into  pleasant  hills  before 
dying  quite  away  into  the  sea-board  levels  " — where  "  a  man  can  find 
such  temperances  of  heaven  and  earth — enough  of  struggle  with  nature 
to  draw  out  manhood,  with  enough  of  bouity  to  sanction  the  struggle 
— that  a  more  exquisite  co-adaptation  of  all  blessed  circumstances  for 
man's  life  need  not  be  sought." 

MY  SPRINGS,  p.  71. 

Of  this  newly-written  poem  Mr.  Lanier  says  in  a  letter  of  March, 
1874:  "Of  course,  since  I  have  written  it  to  print  I  cannot  make  it 
such  as  /  desire  in  artistic  design:  for  the  forms  of  to-day  require  a 
certain  trim  smugness  and  clean-shaven  propriety  in  the  face  and  dress 
of  a  poem,  and  I  must  win  a  hearing  by  conforming  in  some  degree  to 
these  tyrannies,  with  a  view  to  overturning  them  in  the  future.  Writ 
ten  so,  it  is  not  nearly  so  beautiful  as  I  would  have  it ;  and  I  therefore 
have  another  still  in  my  heart,  which  I  will  some  day  write  for  myself." 

A  SONG  OF  LOVE,  p.  97. 

A  Song  of  Love,  like  Betrayal,  belongs  to  the  early  plan  of  The  Jac 
querie.  It  was  written  for  one  of  the  Fool's  songs  and,  after  several 
recastings,  took  its  present  shape  in  1879. 

To  NANNETTB  FALK-AUERBACH,  p.  102. 

This  sonnet  was  originally  written  in  the  German  and  published  in  a 
German  daily  of  Baltimore,  while  the  author's  translation  appeared 
at  the  same  time  in  the  Baltimore  GAZETTE. 

To  OUR  MOCKING-BIRD,  p.  103. 

The  history  of  this  bird's  life  is  given  at  length  under  the  title  of 
"  Bob,"  in  THE  INDEPENDENT  of  August  3,  1882,  and  will  show  that 
he  deserved  to  be  immortal — as  we  hope  he  is. 

ODE  TO  THE  JOHNS  HOPKINS  UNIVERSITY,  p.  108. 
"...     the  soaring  genius'd  Sylvester 

That  earlier  loosed  the  knot  great  Newton  tied," 
An  algebraic  theorem  announced  by  Newton  was  demonstrated  and 
extended  by  Sylvester.— SIDNEY  LANIER. 


NOTES.  255 

A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER,  p.  141. 

A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master  was  conceived  as  an  interlude  of 
the  latest  Hymn  of  the  Marshes,  Sunrise,  although  written  earlier.  In 
the  author's  first  copy  and  first  revision  of  that  Hymn^  thfc  Ballad  was 
incorporated,  following  the  invocation  to  the  trees  which  closes  with  : 

"  And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air, 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer." 

In  Mr.  Lanier's  final  copy  the  Ballad  is  omitted.  It  was  one  of  sev. 
eral  interludes  which  he  at  first  designed,  but,  for  some  reason,  after 
wards  abandoned. 

To  MY  CLASS,  p.  146. 

A  class  in  English  Literature,  composed  of  young  girls  who  had  beeq 
studying  with  Mr.  Lanier  The  Knighte's  Tale  of  Chaucer. 

The  sonnet  On  Violet's  Wafers  was  addressed  to  a  member  of  the 
same  class,  and  is  similarly  conceived. 

UNDER  THE  CEDARCROFT  CHESTNUT,  p.  149. 

"  This  chestnut-tree  (at  Cedarcroft,  the  estate  of  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor, 
in  Pennsylvania),  is  estimated  to  be  more  than  eight  hundred  years 
old."— SIDNEY  LANIER,  1877. 

Hard  by  stood  its  mate,  apparently  somewhat  younger.  It  is  related 
in  a  letter  of  1882,  from  Mrs.  Taylor,  that  in  1880,  a  year  after  Mr. 
Taylor's  death,  one  of  these  majestic  trees  gave  the  first  signs  of  de 
cay  :  while  his  comrade  lingered  two  years  longer — to  follow  as  closely 
the  footsteps  of  Mr.  Lanier  :  the  two,  faithful-hearted  "  to  their  master 
and  to  him  who  sang  of  them." 

A  FLORIDA  GHOST,  p.  171. 

The  incidents  recorded  of  this  storm  are  matter  of  history  in  and 
around  Tampa. 

NINE  FROM  EIGHT,  p.  177. 

The  local  expression  "  under  the  hack  "  is  kindly  explained  by  an 
authority  in  middle  Georgia  dialect,  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston,  author 
of  The  Dukesborovgh  Tales  and  other  Georgia  stories.  He  says  : 

' '  '  Under  the  hack '  is  a  well-known  phrase  among  the  country-peo 
ple,  and  is  applied,  generally  in  a  humorous  sense,  to  those  who  have 
been  cowed  by  any  accident.  A  man  who  is  overruled  by  his  wife,  I 
have  often  heard  described  as  •  under  the  hack  ' :  '  She's  got  him  under 
the  hack.'  So,  when  a  man  has  lost  spirit  from  any  cause,  he  is  said 
to  be  '  under  the  hack.'  The  phrase  is  possibly  derived  from  •  hackle,' 
an  instrument  used  in  the  breaking  of  flax." 


256  NOTES. 

"  THAR'S  MORK  IN  THE  MAN,"  ETC.,  p.  180. 

"  Jones  "  designates  Jones  County,  Ga. ,  one  of  the  counties  adjoin* 
ing  Bibb  County,  in  which  Macon  is  located. 

THE  JACQUBRIB,  p.  191. 

Although  The  Jacquerie  remained  a  fragment  for  thirteen  years  Mr. 
Lanier's  interest  in  the  subject  never  abated.  Far  on  in  this  interval 
he  is  found  planning  for  leisure  to  work  out  in  romance  the  story  of 
that  savage  insurrection  of  the  French  peasantry,  which  the  Chronicles 
of  Froissart  had  impressed  upon  his  boyish  imagination. 

To  ,  p.  230. 

The  era  of  verse-writing  with  Mr.  Lanier  reopens  in  this  dream  of 
the  Virginia  bay  where  poet's  reveries  and  war's  awakenings  continu 
ally  alternated. 

He  presents  it  for  a  friend's  criticism — at  the  age  of  twenty-one — in 
thesr  words  :  "  I  send  you  a  little  poem  which  sang  itself  through  me 
the  other  day.  'Tis  the  first  I've  written  in  many  years." 

NIGHT,  p.  240. 

This  poem  wa£  /lot  published  by  the  writer  and  the  simile  of  the 
second  verse  was  appropriated  to  An  Evening  Song.  This  partial  rep 
etition — like  that  of  portions  of  The  Tournament  and  of  A  Dream  of 
June,  which  occur  in  the  Psalm  of  the  West — will  be  pardoned  as  af 
fording  a  favorable  opportunity  to  observe  Mr.  Lanier's  growth  in 
artistic  form. 


THE  CENTENNIAL  CANTATA 


MUSICAI.AN- 
NOTATIONS. 
Fullekorus: 
sober,  meats* 
uredandyel 

majestic 
Jrogressionl 

of  chords. 


THE  CENTENNIAL    MEDITATION    OF 
COLUMBIA. 

1776-1876. 

A    CANTATA. 

FROM  this  hundred- terraced  height, 
Sight  more  large  with  nobler  light 
Ranges  down  yon  towering  years. 
Humbler  smiles  and  lordlier  tears 

Shine  and  fall,  shine  and  fall, 
While  old  voices  rise  and  call 
Yonder  where  the  to-and-fro 
Weltering  of  my  Long- Ago 
Moves  about  the  moveless  base 
Far  below  my  resting-place. 

Mayflower,  Mayflower,  slowly  hither  flying, 
Trembling  westward  o'er  yon  balking  sea, 
Hearts  within  Farewell  dear  England  sighing, 
Winds  without  But  dear  in  vain  replying, 
Gray-lipp'd  waves  about  thee  shouted,  crying 
"No!    It  shall  not  be !" 

Jamestown,  out  of  thee — 
Plymouth,  thee — thee,  Albany- 
Winter  cries,  Ye  freeze  :  away ! 
Fever  cries,  Ye  burn  :  away ! 
Hunger  cries,  Ye  starve  :  away  ! 
Vengeance  cries,  Your  graves  shall  stay  / 
n* 


Chorus: 

the  sea  and 

the  winds 

mingling 

their   voices 

•with  human 

tight. 


Quartette: 

m  mettfrr 


ing  minor. 


260       THE  CENTENNIAL  CANTATA. 

Then  old  Shapes  and  Masks  of  Things, 
Fuiichorus:   Framed  like  Faiths  or  clothed  like  Kings 

return  of 

the  motive  of  Ghosts  of  Goods  once  fleshed  and  fair, 

the  second 

movement.     Grown  foul  Bads  in  alien  air — 

but   worked  , 

up  with      War,  and  his  most  noisy  lords, 
fury,  to  the  Tongued  with  lithe  and  poisoned  swords— 
theTtout" at  Error,  Terror,  Rage  and  Crime, 

the  last  line.      A ,,  .  .     ,         .    ,  .      c    . 

All  in  a  windy  night  of  time 
Cried  to  me  from  land  and  sea, 

No  /  Thou  shalt  not  be  ! 


Hark! 

Huguenots  whispering  yea  in  the  dark, 
A  rapid      Puritans  answering  yea  in  the  dark  ! 

and  intense 

whisper-      Yea  like  an  arrow  shot  true  to  his  mark, 

chorus. 

Darts  through  the  tyrannous  heart  of  Denial. 

Patience  and  Labor  and  solemn-souled  Trial, 

Foiled,  still  beginning, 

Soiled,  but  not  sinning, 

Toil  through  the  stertorous  death  of  the  Night, 
Toil  when  wild  brother-wars  new-dark  the  Ligfct, 
Toil,  and  forgive,  and  kiss  o'er,  and  replight. 


Chorus  of  Now  Praise  to  God's  oft-granted  grace, 

jubilation, 

until  the  »p- 

$eal  of  the  _.          .         ,       ,        ,      ,  ., 

last  two  Despite  the  land,  despite  the  sea, 

lines    intro-  ,  T  j   T     v    11  v 

duces  a  tone  I  was  :  I  am  :  and  I  shall  be  — 


How  lonS>  Good  An§el»  °  how  l°ng  ? 
pianissimo.    sing  me  from  Heaven  a  man's  own  song  I 


Basso  sob:    "  Long  as  thine  Art  shall  love  true  love, 

the  food  An- 

gel  replies:    Long  as  thy  Science  truth  shall  know, 
Long  as  thine  Eagle  harms  no  Dove, 
Long  as  thy  Law  by  law  shall  grow, 


CENTENNIAL    MEDITATION  OF  COLUMBIA.       261 

Long  as  thy  God  is  God  above, 

Thy  brother  every  man  below, 

So  long,  dear  Land  of  all  my  love, 

Thy  name  shall  shine,  thy  fame  shall  glow  !  " 

O  Music,  from  this  height  of  time  my  Word  un-  FvUcfanai 

e  ,,  jubilation 

fold  :  and 

In  thy  large  signals  all  men's  hearts  Man's  heart      melcome' 

behold  : 
Mid-heaven  unroll   thy   chords   as   friendly  flags 

unfurled, 
And  wave  the  world's  best  lover's  welcome  to  the 

world. 


NOTE  TO  THE  CANTATA. 

The  annotated  musical  directions  which  here  accompany  The  Can 
tata,  arranged  for  the  composer's  use,  were  first  sent  with  the  newly- 
completed  text  in  a  private  letter  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock,  of  Phila 
delphia. 

I  am  enabled  to  give  these  annotations  and  the  author's  own  introduc 
tion  to  his  work  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Peacock  :  the  friend  who, 
while  yet  an  entire  stranger,  awakened  and  led  the  public  recognition 
of  Mr.  Lanier's  place  in  the  world  of  art  M.  D.  L. 

"  BALTIMORE,  January  18,  1876. 

"...  The  enclosed  will  show  you  partly  what  I  have  been 
doing.  .  .  .  The  Centennial  Commission  has  invited  me  to  write 
a  poem  which  shall  serve  as  the  text  for  a  Cantata  (the  music  to  be  by 
Dudley  Buck,  of  New  York),  to  be  sung  at  the  opening  of  the  Exhibi 
tion,  under  Thomas'  direction.  .  .  .  I've  written  the  enclosed. 
Necessarily  I  had  to  think  out  the  musical  conceptions  as  well  as  the 
poem,  and  I  have  briefly  indicated  these  along  the  margin  of  each 
movement.  I  have  tried  to  make  the  whole  as  simple  and  as  candid  as 
a  melody  of  Beethoven's :  at  the  same  time  expressing  the  largest 


262       THE  CENTENNIAL  CANTATA. 

ideas  possible,  and  expressing  them  in  such  a  way  as  could  not  be  of 
fensive  to  any  modern  soul.  I  particularly  hope  you'll  like  the  Angel's 
song,  where  I  have  endeavored  to  convey,  in  one  line  each,  the  phi 
losophies  of  Art,  of  Science,  of  Power,  of  Government,  of  Faith,  and  of 
Social  Life.  Of  course  I  shall  not  expect  that  this  will  instantly  appeal 
to  tastes  peppered  and  salted  by  [certain  of  our  contemporary  writers] ; 
but  one  cannot  forget  Beethoven,  and  somehow  all  my  inspiration 
came  in  these  large  and  artless  forms,  in  simple  Saxon  words,  in  un 
pretentious  and  purely  intellectual  conceptioas,  while  nevertheless  I 
felt,  all  through,  the  necessity  of  making  a  genuine  song — and  not  a 
rhymed  set  of  good  adages — out  of  it.  I  adopted  the  trochees  of  the 
first  movement  because  they  compel  a  measured,  sober,  and  meditative 
movement  of  the  mind ;  and  because,  too,  they  are  not  the  genius  of 
our  language.  When  the  troubles  cease,  and  the  land  emerges  as  a 
distinct  unity,  then  I  fall  into  our  native  iambics.  .  .  ." 

"  BALTIMORE,  January  25,  1876. 

"Mr  DEAR  FRIEND  : — Your  praise,  and  your  wife's,  give  me  a  world 
of  comfort.  I  really  do  not  believe  anything  was  ever  written  under 
an  equal  number  of  limitations  ;  and  when  I  first  came  to  know  all  the 
conditions  of  the  poem  I  was  for  a  moment  inclined  to  think  that  no 
genuine  work  could  be  produced  under  them. 

"As  for  the  friend  who  was  the  cause  of  the  compliment,  it  was,  di 
rectly,  Mr.  Taylor.  .  .  .  Indirectly,  you  are  largely  concerned  in 
it  ...  I  fancy  [all]  this  must  have  been  owing  much  to  the  repu 
tation  which  you  set  a-rolling  so  recently.  .  .  . 

"  So,  God  bless  you  both. 

"  Your  friend,  S.  L." 


47  2 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


AUG  3     1943 
^N  22    $50 

MAR  1  9  1958 


1  8  1960 

MAR  1  0  1961 

MAY  2  a  1952 


3  1158  00908  0184 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000033131 


